Pope: Satires and Epistles

Etukansi
Clarendon Press, 1906 - 164 sivua

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Sivu 33 - 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...
Sivu 34 - A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest ; Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
Sivu 24 - They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide, By land, by water, they renew the charge, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
Sivu 29 - Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there.
Sivu 24 - 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?
Sivu 65 - All this may be; the People's voice is odd; It is, and it is not, the voice of God.
Sivu 36 - Me, let the tender office long engage, To rock the cradle of reposing age, With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death, Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, And keep awhile one parent from the sky...
Sivu 146 - I remember the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never blotted out a line. My answer hath been, "Would he ' had blotted a thousand," which they thought a malevolent speech.
Sivu 125 - With lust and violence the house of God? In courts and palaces he also reigns, And in luxurious cities, where the noise Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers, And injury, and outrage: And when night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.
Sivu 31 - d by ev'ry quill ; Fed with soft dedication all day long, Horace and he went hand in hand in song. His library (where busts of poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head) Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race, Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place...

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