The Poetical Works of Alexander Pope: To which is Prefixed, a Life of the Author ...Z. & B. F. Pratt, 1846 |
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Страница 9
... Homer died three thousand years ago . Why did I write ? what sin to me unknown Dipp'd me in ink - my parents ' or my own ? As yet a child , nor yet a fool to fame , I lisp'd in numbers , for the numbers came ; I left no calling for this ...
... Homer died three thousand years ago . Why did I write ? what sin to me unknown Dipp'd me in ink - my parents ' or my own ? As yet a child , nor yet a fool to fame , I lisp'd in numbers , for the numbers came ; I left no calling for this ...
Страница 27
... Homer's rule the best , Welcome the coming , speed the going guest . ) ' Pray Heaven it last ! ' cries Swift , ' as you go on : I wish to God this house had been your own . Pity ! to build , without a son or wife IMITATIONS OF HORACE . 27.
... Homer's rule the best , Welcome the coming , speed the going guest . ) ' Pray Heaven it last ! ' cries Swift , ' as you go on : I wish to God this house had been your own . Pity ! to build , without a son or wife IMITATIONS OF HORACE . 27.
Страница 51
... Homer ) since I live and thrive , Indebted to no prince or peer alive , Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes , If I would scribble , rather than repose . Years following years steal something every day At last they steal us from ...
... Homer ) since I live and thrive , Indebted to no prince or peer alive , Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes , If I would scribble , rather than repose . Years following years steal something every day At last they steal us from ...
Страница 53
... Homer's spirit . Call Tibbald Shakspeare , and he'll swear the Nine , Dear Cibber ! never match'd one ode of thine . Lord ! how we strut through Merlin's Cave , to see No poets there , but Stephen , you , and me . Walk with respect ...
... Homer's spirit . Call Tibbald Shakspeare , and he'll swear the Nine , Dear Cibber ! never match'd one ode of thine . Lord ! how we strut through Merlin's Cave , to see No poets there , but Stephen , you , and me . Walk with respect ...
Страница 95
... Homer's mice , Or gods to save them in a trice ! ( It was by Providence they think , For your damn'd stucco has no chink . ) ' An't please your honour , ' quoth the peasant , ' This same desert is not so pleasant : Give me again my ...
... Homer's mice , Or gods to save them in a trice ! ( It was by Providence they think , For your damn'd stucco has no chink . ) ' An't please your honour , ' quoth the peasant , ' This same desert is not so pleasant : Give me again my ...
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ancient bard Bavius behold bless'd Boileau called charms CHIG church Cibber court cried critics Curll Dennis divine dull Dulness dunce Dunciad e'en Edmund Curll epic epigram EPISTLE Essay Essay on Criticism eyes fame fate flatter folly fool genius gentle gentleman Gildon give glory goddess grace grave hath head heart Heaven hero Homer honour Horace Iliad king knave laureate learned Leonard Welsted letters live lord lord Bolingbroke muse never numbers o'er Ogilby once panegyric person pleased poem poet poet's poetry Pope praise prince printed queen racter rage REMARKS rhyme saith satire scholiast Scribl Scriblerus sense Shakspeare shine sing SITY smile song soul sure thee things thou thought throne tion town true truth UNIV verse Virgil virtue Westminster Abbey Whig whore words writ write
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Страница 54 - True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
Страница 6 - I said; Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. The Dog-star rages! nay 'tis past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
Страница 106 - twixt reading and Bohea, To muse, and spill her solitary Tea, Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon...
Страница 12 - Till grown more frugal in his riper days, He paid some bards with port, and some with praise ; To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd, And others (harder still) he paid in kind.
Страница 11 - Like Cato, give his little senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause ; While wits and templars every sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise — Who but must laugh if such a man there be ? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he ? What though my name stood rubric on the walls, Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals ? Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers...
Страница 6 - And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song) What drop or nostrum can this plague remove ? Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love ? A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped, If foes, they write, — if friends, they read me dead.
Страница 280 - Some gentle James, to bless the land again ; To stick the doctor's chair into the throne, Give law to words, or war with words alone, Senates and courts with Greek and Latin rule, And turn the council to a grammar school ! For sure, if Dulness sees a grateful day, 'Tis in the shade of arbitrary sway.
Страница 14 - What ? that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white curd of Ass's milk ? Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel ? Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel ? P.
Страница 306 - In vain ! They gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. Religion, blushing, veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires. Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos ! is restored; Light dies before thy uncreating word ; Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall, And universal darkness buries all.
Страница 305 - Heav'n before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense! See Mystery to Mathematics fly! In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die, Religion blushing veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires.