« PreviousContinue »
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
Canto ii. Line 17.
If to her share some female errors fall,
Look on her face, and you'll forget them all.
The Rape of the Lock-Continued.
Canto ii. Line 27.
Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare,
Canto iii. Line 16.
At every word a reputation dies.
The hungry judges soon the sentence sign,
Canto v. Line 34.
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.
SATIRES AND IMITATIONS OF HORACE.
Prologue, Line 1.
Shut, shut the door, good John.
E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me.
Who pens a stanza when he should engross.
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.
The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
Satires of Horace-Continued.
And he whose fustain 's so sublimely bad,
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
Book ii. Satire i. Line 6.
Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.
Satire 's my weapon, but I'm too discreet
There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl, The feast of reason and the flow of soul.
Book ii. Satire ii. Line 159.
For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best,
* See the Odyssey, Book xv. line 83.
Essay on Man - Continued.
Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,*
Virtuous and vicious every man must be,
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.
Till tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er.
Epistle iii. Line 305.
For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight;
Epistle iv. Line 1.
O happiness! our being's end and aim!
Order is Heaven's first law.
Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense,
*For truth has such a face and such a mien,
As to be loved needs only to be seen.
Hind and Panther. DRYDEN,
Essay on Man-Continued.
The soul's calm sunshine and the heartfelt joy.
Honor and shame from no condition rise;
Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow; The rest is all but leather or prunella.
What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards?
A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod;
An honest man's the noblest work of God.
Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart:
And more true joy Marcellus exiled feels
Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels.
If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined,