The Works of Alexander Pope: Satires, &cJ. and P. Knapton, 1751 |
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aetas againſt atque becauſe beſt Biſhop cafe cauſe Court Deûm Dunciad eaſe Epiftle ev'n ev'ry expreffion faid fame fatire feem fenfe fhall fhew fhould fibi fince fing firft firſt fome fool fpirit ftill ftrange fuch fuit fure grace himſelf honeft honour Horace Houſe imitation juft King Knave laft laſt Laws leaſt lefs Lord lov'd ludicra Minifters moſt Mufe Muſe muſt ne'er neque never nihil NOTES numbers nunc o'er Original Paffion perfon Pindar pleas'd pleaſe pleaſure Poet Poet's poft Pow'r praiſe profe Pythagorea quae quam Quid quod racter reaſon reft rhyme rifu Satire ſay ſcarce Shakeſpear ſhall ſpeak ſtate ſtill ſuch tamen thefe themſelves theſe thing thofe thoſe thought thouſand thro tibi uſe verfe verſe Virtue Whig whofe whoſe wife worfe worſe writ write
Priljubljeni odlomki
Stran 18 - Who but must laugh if such a man there be ? Who would not weep if Atticus were he?
Stran 17 - And born to write, converse, and live with ease: Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne...
Stran 51 - Hear this, and tremble ! you who 'scape the laws. Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave Shall walk the world, in credit, to his grave.
Stran 243 - Before her dance; behind her crawl the Old! See thronging Millions to the Pagod run, And offer Country, Parent, Wife, or Son! Hear her black Trumpet thro' the Land proclaim, That "Not to be corrupted is the Shame.
Stran 19 - d by ev'ry quill ; Fed with soft dedication all day long, Horace and he went hand in hand in song.
Stran 234 - Seen him, uncumber'd with the Venal tribe, Smile without Art, and win without a Bribe. Would he oblige me ? let me only find, He does not think me what he thinks mankind.
Stran 6 - 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.
Stran 30 - Bestia's from the throne. Born to no pride, inheriting no strife, Nor marrying discord in a noble wife, Stranger to civil and religious rage, The good man walk'd innoxious through his age. No courts he saw, no suits would ever try, Nor dar'd an oath, nor hazarded a lie.
Stran 244 - Are what ten thousand envy and adore : All, all look up with reverential awe, At crimes that 'scape or triumph o'er the law ; While truth, worth, wisdom, daily they decry : Nothing is sacred now but villainy.
Stran 157 - Besides, a fate attends on all I write, That when I aim at praise they say I bite. A vile encomium doubly ridicules : There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools. If true, a woful likeness ; and, if lies, ' Praise undeserv'd is scandal in disguise.