The Works of Alexander Pope, Том 3

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Сторінка 69 - twould a saint provoke," (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke ;} " No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face : One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead — And — Betty — give this cheek a little red.
Сторінка 537 - Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; Blest with each talent, and each art to please, 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...
Сторінка 385 - True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learned to dance.
Сторінка 241 - Pope. Friend to my Life ! (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song) What Drop or Nostrum can this plague remove ? Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love ? A dire dilemma ! either way I'm sped, If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
Сторінка 296 - There St John mingles with my friendly bowl The feast of reason and the flow of soul...
Сторінка 537 - Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike...
Сторінка 246 - Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world. Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through, He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: Destroy his fib, or sophistry, in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again...
Сторінка 110 - See how the World its Veterans rewards! A Youth of Frolics, an old Age of Cards; Fair to no purpose, artful to no end, Young without Lovers, old without a Friend; A Fop their Passion, but their Prize a Sot; Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot!
Сторінка 351 - But wit, abstracted from its effects upon the hearer, may be more rigorously and philosophically considered as a kind of discordia concors; a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike.
Сторінка 534 - Like Cato, give his little senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause ; While wits and templars every sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise ; Who but must laugh if such a man there be ? Who would not weep if Atticus were he? What though my name stood rubric on the walls, Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals ? Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers...

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