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Of all the causes that conspire to blind
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind,
What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
Of darkness visible so much be lent, as half to show, half veil, the deep intent.
Of little use, the man you may suppose,
Who says in verse what others say in prose;
Yet let me show a poet's of some weight,
And (though no soldier) useful to the state,
What will a child learn sooner than a song?
What better teach a foreigner the tongue?
What's long or short, each accent where to place
And speak in public with some sort of grace?
Oft in dreams invention we bestow to change a flounce or add a furbelow.
Oh! be thou blest with all that Heaven can send,
Long health, long youth, long pleasure--and a friend.
Oh! blest with temper, whose unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day.
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe,
Wrapt in a gown, for sickness and show.
One master-passion in the breast,
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest.
One self-approving hour whole years outweighs.
Or will you think, my friend, your bus'ness done
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one.
Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for a time, leave us the weaker ever after.
Papillia, wedded to her amorous spark,
Sighs for the shades--"How charming is a park?"
A park is purchas'd, but the fair he sees
All bath'd in tears--"O odious, odious trees!"
Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the tomb.
Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd to look behind,
And count each birthday with a grateful mind.
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.
Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood,
Our greatest evil, or our greatest good.
Poplars and alders ever quivering played, and nodding cypress formed a fragrant shade.
Pretty conceptions, fine metaphors, glittering expressions, and something of a neat cast of verse are properly the dress, gems, or loose ornaments of poetry.
Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, and fills up all the mighty void of sense.
Ravished with the whistling of a name.
Reason raise o'er instinct as you can,
In this 'tis God directs, in that 'tis man.
Riches, like insects, when conceal'd they lie,
Wait but for wings, and in their season fly.
Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,
Sees but a backward steward for the poor;
This year a reservoir, to keep and spare;
The next a fountain, spouting thro' his heir
In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst,
And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.
Rogues in rags are kept in countenance by rogues in ruffles.
Say why are beauties praised and honored most,
The wise man's passion and the vain man's Toast.
Scipio, great in his triumphs, in retirement great.
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