If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shin'd, Epistle v.. Lines 281-284. Know then this truth (enough for man to know), "Virtue alone is happiness below.", Lines 309, 310. Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, Lines 331, 332. Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, Lines 377-380. Line 389. Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend. That virtue only makes our bliss below; Lines 397, 398. MORAL ESSAYS. 'Tis education forms the common mind: Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclin'd. And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breath, Lines 262, 263. Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; Men, some to quiet, some to public strife; Who shall decide, when doctors disagree, and me? The ruling passion, be it what it will, Lines 153, 154 In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung,* * Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, the gay, witty, and unprincipled minister of Charles the Second, to whom Pope here refers, did not die as thus represented, but at a farm house at Kirby Moorside. Cliefden was one of the The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung; Of mimic statesmen, and their merry king. Epistle 11 Where London's column, pointing at the skies Lines 339, 340. palaces of the Duke, and a favourite place of residence with him and the Countess of Shrewsbury, who is alluded to in these lines-correctly, if we have writ our annals true—as the “wanton Shrewsbury." Dryden lampoons the Duke under the name of Zimri, in his " Absalom and Achitophel." See Quotations from Dryden. * The monument in London is alluded to. It was built to commemorate the great fire of London, and had an inscription placed on it importing that the Roman Catholics had set fire to the city. But Satan now is wiser than of yore, And tempts by making rich, not making poor. To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite, Who never mentions hell to ears polite. Epistle iv. Lines 149, 150. PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES. Who shames a scribbler? Break one cobweb through, The creature's at his dirty work again. Lines 89-92. As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. Lines 127, 128. The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, Lines 171, 172. And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, Lines 187, 188. Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Lines 197-202. Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ? Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel? Lines 213, 214. Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel? Lines 307, 308. THE DUNCIAD. Prudence, whose glass presents the approaching jail; Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs, Book 1. Lines 51-54 Next, o'er his books his eyes began to roll, In pleasing memory of all he stole, How here he sipp'd, how there he plunder'd snug, And suck'd all o'er, like an industrious bug. Lines 127-130. |