The Works of Alexander Pope, Esq: In Four Volumes Complete. With His Last Corrections, Additions, and Improvements. Carefully Collated and Compared with Former Editions: Together with Notes from the Various Critics and Commentators
Editor, and sold, 1778
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Seite 129 - And here give me leave to mention what Monsieur Boileau has so well enlarged upon in the preface to his works: That wit and fine writing doth not consist so much in advancing things that are new, as in giving things that are known an agreeable turn.
Seite 106 - Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see Men not afraid of God afraid of me: Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit, and the Throne, Yet touched and shamed by ridicule alone.
Seite 5 - The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?) The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I. You think this cruel ? take it for a rule, No creature smarts so little as a fool. Let peals of laughter, Codrus ! round thee break, 85 Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack: Pit, box, and gall'ry in convulsions hurl'd, Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world. Who shames a Scribbler? break one cobweb thro...
Seite 11 - As shallow streams run dimpling all the way. Whether in florid impotence he speaks, And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks; Or, at the ear of Eve, familiar toad, Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad...
Seite 283 - We only furnish what he cannot use, Or wed to what he must divorce, a muse: Full in the midst of Euclid dip at once, And petrify a genius to a dunce: Or set on metaphysic ground to prance, Show all his paces, not a step advance.
Seite 13 - If on a pillory, or near a throne, He gain his prince's ear, or lose his own. Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit, Sappho can tell you how this man was bit...
Seite 4 - 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?
Seite 173 - Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, Where o'er the gates, by his fam'd father's hand Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand; One Cell there is, conceal'd from vulgar eye, The Cave of Poverty and Poetry. Keen, hollow winds howl thro' the bleak recess, Emblem of Music caus'd by Emptiness.