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English poet and dramatist
(1631 - 1700)
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Whate'er he did, was done with so much ease,
  In him alone 't was natural to please.
      - Absalom and Achitophel (pt. I, l. 27)

Whatever he did, was done with so much ease,
  In him alone 'twas natural to please.
      - Absalom and Achitophel (pt. I, l. 27)

And nobler is a limited command,
  Given by the love of all your native land,
    Than a successive title, long and dark,
      Drawn from the mouldy rolls of Noah's Ark.
      - Absalom and Achitophel (pt. I, l. 299)
        [Love of Country]

But far more numerous was the herd of such,
  Who think too little, and who talk too much.
      - Absalom and Achitophel (pt. I, l. 533)

A man so various, that he seem'd to be
  Not one, but all mankind's epitome;
    Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong.
      Was everything by starts, and nothing long;
        But in the course of one revolving moon,
          Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.
      - Absalom and Achitophel (pt. I, l. 545)
        [Character : Proverbs]

So over violent, or over civil,
  That every man with him was God or Devil.
      - Absalom and Achitophel (pt. I, l. 557)

His tribe were God Almighty's gentlemen.
      - Absalom and Achitophel (pt. I, l. 645)
        [Gentlemen : Man]

Such subtle covenants shall be made,
  Till peace itself is war in masquerade.
      - Absalom and Achitophel
         (pt. I, l. 752; pt. II, l. 268) [Peace]

For who can be secure of private right,
  If sovereign sway may be dissolved by might?
    Nor is the people's judgment always true:
      The most may err as grossly as the few.
      - Absalom and Achitophel (pt. I, l. 779)

Him of the western dome, whose weighty sense
  Flows in fit words and heavenly eloquence.
      - Absalom and Achitophel (pt. I, l. 868)

But Esau's hands suit ill with Jacob's voice.
      - Absalom and Achitophel (pt. I, l. 982)

For every inch that is not fool, is rogue.
      - Absalom and Achitophel (pt. II, l. 463)

Doeg, though without knowing how or why,
  Made a still a blundering kind of melody;
    Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin,
      Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in;
        Free from all meaning whether good or bad,
          And in one word, heroically mad.
      - Absalom and Achitophel (pt. II,, l. 412),
        "Thick and Thin" [Poetry]

Behold him setting in his western skies,
  The shadows lengthening as the vapours rise.
      - Absalom and Achitophel (st. 1, l. 268)

Two gates the silent house of Sleep adorn:
  Of polished ivory this, that of transparent horn:
    True visions through transparent horn arise;
      Through polished ivory pass deluding lies.
      - Aeneid (bk. VI, 894) [Sleep]

Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again.
      - Alexander's Feast (l. 120) [Sighs]

And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy.
      - Alexander's Feast (l. 154) [Women]

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
      - Alexander's Feast (l. 160) [Ability]

He raised a mortal to the skies;
  She drew an angel down.
      - Alexander's Feast (l. 169) [Influence]

With ravish'd ears
  The monarch hears,
    Assumes the god,
      Affects to nod,
        And seems to shake the spheres.
      - Alexander's Feast (l. 37) [Gods]

Rich the treasure,
  Sweet the pleasure,
    Sweet is pleasure after pain.
      - Alexander's Feast (l. 58) [Pleasure]

Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain:
  Fought all his battles o'er again;
    And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain.
      - Alexander's Feast (l. 66) [Vanity]

Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
  Fallen from his high estate,
    And welt'ring in his blood;
      Deserted at his utmost need,
        By those his former bounty fed;
          On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
            With not a friend to close his eyes.
      - Alexander's Feast (l. 77) [Misfortune]

For pity melts the mind to love.
  Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
    Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures.
      War, he sung, is toll and trouble;
        Honour but an empty bubble.
      - Alexander's Feast (l. 96) [Pity]

War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
  Honour but an empty bubble.
      - Alexander's Feast (l. 99) [War]

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