The Poetical Works of Alexander Pope. ...

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Bell and Daldy, 1866
 

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第 14 頁 - Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys : So well-bred spaniels civilly delight In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.
第 9 頁 - He, who still wanting, tho' he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: And He, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, Means not, but blunders round about a meaning...
第 266 頁 - Now leave all memory of sense behind: How Prologues into Prefaces decay, And these to Notes are fritter'd quite away: How Index-learning turns no student pale. Yet holds the eel of science by the tail...
第 108 頁 - Vice is undone, if she forgets her Birth, And stoops from Angels to the Dregs of Earth; But 'tis the Fall degrades her to a whore; Let...
第 3 頁 - And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. I sit with sad civility, I read With honest anguish, and an aching head ; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel,
第 2 頁 - SHUT, shut the door, good John ! fatigued, I said, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. The Dog-star rages ! nay 'tis past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out : Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 5 They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
第 272 頁 - HIGH on a throne of royal state, which far Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold...
第 317 頁 - O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme! Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull, Strong without rage, without o'er-flowing full.
第 141 頁 - Berkshire, •This modest stone, what few vain marbles can, May truly say, Here lies an honest man : A poet, blest beyond the poet's fate, Whom Heaven kept sacred from the Proud and Great : Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease, Content with science in the vale of peace.
第 9 頁 - Like Cato, give his little Senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause; While Wits and Templars ev'ry 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 tho' my Name stood rubric on the walls Or plaister'd posts, with claps, in capitals?

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