« VorigeDoorgaan »
Essay on Man -Continued.
Know then this truth (enough for man to know), "Virtue alone is happiness below.”
Slave to no sect, who takes no private road,
Formed by thy converse, happily to steer
Say, shall my little bark attendant sail,
Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend.
Epistle i. Line 135.
'Tis from high life high characters are drawn; A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.
"Tis education forms the common mind: Just as the twig is bent, the tree 's inclined.
Odious! in woollen! 't would a saint provoke, Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke.
And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breath
Epistle ii. Line 15.
Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it,
Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it
Fine by defect and delicately weak.
With too much quickness ever to be taught;
Virtue she finds too painful an endeavor,
Content to dwell in decencies for ever.
Men, some to business, some to pleasure take;
See how the world its veterans rewards!
Oh! blessed with temper, whose unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day.
But thousands die without or this or that,
The ruling passion, be it what it will,
Extremes in nature equal good produce.
Rise, honest muse! and sing, the man of Ross.
Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name.
Epistle iv. Line 149.
To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite
AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM.
Part i. Line 9.
'Tis with our judgments as our watches; none Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.
Part ii. Line 15.
A little learning is a dangerous thing;
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise.
Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.*
True wit is nature to advantage dressed,
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed.
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
"High characters," cries one, and he would see,
There is no such thing in Nature, and you'll draw
Essay on Criticism - Continued.
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learned to dance.
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
To err is human: to forgive, divine.
All seems infected that th' infected spy,
Part iii. Line 15.
Men must be taught as if you taught them not,
The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,
For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
Ode on Solitude.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Steal from the world, and not a stone