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ALEXANDER POPE
English poet and critic
(1688 - 1744)
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A spring there is, whose silver waters show
  Clear as a glass the shining sands below:
    A flowering lotos spreads its arms above,
      Shades all the banks, and seems itself a grove.
      - Sappho to Phaon (l. 177) [Lotuses]

For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best,
  Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.
      - Satire II (bk. II, l. 159)
        [Guests : Hospitality]

He knows to live who keeps the middle state,
  And neither leans on this side nor on that.
      - Satire II (bk. II, l. 61) [Moderation]

Nature made every fop to plague his brother,
  Just as one beauty mortifies another.
      - Satire IV (l. 258) [Foppery]

Where are those troops of poor, that throng'd of yore
  The good old landlord's hospitable door?
      - Satires of Dr. Donne (satire II, l. 113)
        [Poverty]

Piecemeal they win this acre first then, that,
  Glean on, and gather up the whole estate.
      - Satires of Dr. Donne (satire II, l. 91)
        [Law]

The vulgar boil, the learned roast, an egg.
      - Satires--Horace
         (epistle II, bk. II, l. 85) [Cookery]

I lose my patience, and I own it too,
  When works are censur'd, not as bad but new;
    While if our Elders break all reason's laws,
      These fools demand not pardon but Applause.
      - Second Book of Horace (ep. I, l. 115)
        [Criticism]

Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind!
      - Second Book of Horace (ep. I, l. 14)
        [Gratitude]

Then marble, soften'd into life, grew warm.
      - Second Book of Horace (ep. I, l. 146)
        [Sculpture]

Lely on animated canvas stole
  The sleepy eye, that spoke the melting soul.
      - Second Book of Horace (ep. I, l. 149)
        [Painting]

Our rural ancestors with little blest,
  Patient of labour when the end was rest,
    Indulg'd the day that hous'd their annual grain,
      With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.
      - Second Book of Horace (ep. I, l. 241)
        [Agriculture]

E'en copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,
  The last and greatest art--the art to blot.
      - Second Book of Horace (ep. I, l. 280)
        [Authorship]

Who pants for glory, finds but short repose;
  A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.
      - Second Book of Horace (ep. I, l. 300)
        [Glory]

It is the rust we value, not the gold;
  Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old.
      - Second Book of Horace (ep. I, l. 35)
        [Authorship]

Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease,
  Whom Folly pleases, and whose Follies please.
      - Second Book of Horace (ep. II, l. 326)
        [Folly]

"An't it please your Honour," quoth the Peasant,
  "This same Desset is not so pleasant:
    Give me again my hollow Tree,
      A Crust of Bread, and Liberty."
      - Second Book of Horace (last lines)
        [Eating]

There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl
  The feast of reason and the flow of soul.
      - Second Book of Horace (satire I, l. 128)
        [Drinking]

There are, to whom my satire seems too bold;
  Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough,
    And something said of Chartres much too rough.
      - Second Book of Horace (satire I, l. 2)
        [Satire]

Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet
  To run amuck and tilt at all I meet.
      - Second Book of Horace (satire I, l. 71)
        [Satire]

Whether the darken'd room to muse invite,
  Or whiten'd wall provoke the skew'r to write;
    In durance, exite, Bedlam, or the Mint,
      Like Lee or Budgel I will rhyme and print.
      - Second Book of Horace (satire I, l. 97)
        [Authorship]

Who thinks that fortune cannot change her mind,
  Prepares a dreadful just for all mankind.
    And who stands safest? Tell me, is it he
      That spreads and swells in puff'd prosperity,
        Or bless'd with little, whose preventing care
          In peace provides fit arms against a war?
      - Second Book of Horace (satire II, l. 123)
        [Fortune]

'Tis true, no turbots dignify my boards,
  But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords.
      - Second Book of Horace (satire II, l. 141)
        [Fish]

Then sing by turns, by turns the Muses sing;
  Now hawthorns blossom.
      - Spring (l. 41) [Hawthorn]

O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize,
  And make my tongue victorious as her eyes.
      - Spring (l. 49) [Love]


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