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AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM.
Part i. Line 9.
'Tis with our judgments as our watches 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,
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
Father of all! in every age,
By saint, by savage, and by sage,
And deal damnation round the land.
Teach me to feel another's woe,
That mercy I to others show,
ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE
By strangers honored, and by strangers mourned.
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show.
THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.
Canto ii. Line 7.
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
Canto ii. Line 17.
If to her share some female errors fall,
Look on her face, and you'll forget them all.
The Rape of the Lock-Continued.
Canto ii. Line 27.
Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare,
Canto iii. Line 16.
At every word a reputation dies.
The hungry judges soon the sentence sign,
Canto v. Line 34.
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.
SATIRES AND IMITATIONS OF HORACE.
Prologue, Line 1.
Shut, shut the door, good John.
E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me.
Who pens a stanza when he should engross.
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.
The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
Satires of Horace - Continued.
And he whose fustain 's so sublimely bad,
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
Book ii. Satire i. Line 6.
Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.
Satire 's my weapon, but I'm too discreet
There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl, The feast of reason and the flow of soul.
Book ii. Satire ii. Line 159.
For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best,
* See the Odyssey, Book xv. line 83.