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When reason, like the skilful charioteer,
Can break the fiery passions to the bit,
And, spite of their licentious sallies, keep
The radiant tract of glory; passions, then,
Are aids and ornaments. Triumphant reason,
Firm in her seat, and swift in her career,
Enjoys their violence, and, smiling, thanks
Their formidable flame, for bright renown.
When women sue, they sue to be denied.
Where boasting ends, there dignity begins.
Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft,
Each other's pillow to repose divine.
Where is the dust that has not been alive?
The spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors;
From human mould we reap our daily bread.
Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly,
When consternation turns the good man pale?
Who fails to grieve, when just occasion calls,
Or grieves too much, deserves not to be blest:
Inhuman, or effeminate, his heart.
Who knows if Shakespear might not have thought less, if he had read more?
- [Reading : Shakespeare]
Who never loved ne'er suffered; he feels nothing,
Who nothing feels but for himself alone.
Who tells me he denies his soul's immortal,
Whate'er his boast, has told me he's a knave;
His duty, 'tis to love himself alone,
Nor care though mankind perish, if he smiles,
Who thinks ere long the man shall wholly die,
Is dead already; nought but brute survives.
Whose yesterdays look backward with a smile.
Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour?
Why wish for more?
Wishing of all employments is the worst.
Will no superior genius snatch the quill, and save me on the brink from writing ill?
Wisdom is rare, Lorenzo! wit abounds.
Wit, how delicious to man's dainty taste!
'Tis precious, as the vehicle of sense;
But, as its substitute, a dire disease;
Pernicious talent! flatter'd by the world,
By the blind world, which thinks the talent rare.
Wisdom is rare--wit abounds.
Passion can give it; sometimes wine inspires
The lucky flash, and madness rarely fails.
With the talents of an angel a man may be a fool.
Women were made to give our eyes delight;
A female sloven is an odious sight.
Wonder is involuntary praise.
Your learning, like the lunar beam, affords
Light, but not heat; it leaves you undevout,
Frozen at heart, while speculation shines.
He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one;
All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.
- Busiris [Ingratitude]
Thou art so witty, profligate and thin,
At once we think thee Satan, Death and Sin.
- Epigram on Voltaire,
who had criticized the characters of the same name in "Paradise Lost"
Against their wills what numbers ruin shun,
Purely through want of wit to be undone!
Nature has shown by making it so rare,
That wit's a jewel which we need not wear.
- Epistle to Mr. Pope (ep. II, l. 80) [Wit]
With fame, in just proportion, envy grows.
- Epistles to Mr. Pope (ep. I, l. 27) [Fame]
The man that makes a character, makes foes.
- Epistles to Mr. Pope (ep. I, l. 28)
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