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If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shin’d,
The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind !
Or ravish'd with the whistling of a name,
See Cromwell damn'd to everlasting fame.

Epistle ir. . 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,
But looks through nature up to nature's God.

Lines 331, 332.

Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise,
To fall with dignity, with temper

rise ; Form'd by the converse, happily to steer From grave to gay, from lively to severe.

Lines 377-380.

Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend.

Line 389.

That virtue only makes our bliss below;
And all our knowledge is ourselves to know.

Lines 397, 398


'Tis education forms the common mind; Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclin'd.

Epistle 1.

Lines 149, 150.

And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breath,
Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death.

Lines 262, 263

Men, some to business, some to pleasure take ;

every woman is at heart a rake.
Men, some to quiet, some to public strife ;
But every lady would be queen for life.

Epistle 11. Lines 215-218.

Who shall decide, when doctors disagree,
And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me ?

Epistle 111.

Lines 1, 2.

The ruling passion, be it what it will,
The ruling passion conquers reason still.

Lines 153, 15+

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 ;
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from that bed,
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red;
Great Villiers lies—Alas! how chang'd from him,
That life of pleasure and that soul of whim.
Gallant and gay, in Cliefden's proud alcove,
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury, and love ;
Or just as gay at council, in a ring
Of mimic statesmen, and their merry king.
No wit to flatter left, of all his store,
No fool to laugh at, which he valued more.
There victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And fame; this lord of useless thousands ends.

Epistle 111. Lines 298-313.

Where London's column, pointing at the skies
Like a tall bully, lifts the head and lies.*

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. 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.

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But Satan now is wiser than of

yore, And tempts by making rich, not making poor.

Epistle 111.

Lines 351, 352.

To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite,
Who never mentions hell to ears polite.

Epistle ir.

Lines 149, 150.



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.

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,
But wonder how the devil they got there.

Lines 171, 172.

And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but prose run mad.

Lines 187, 188.

Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise ;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer.

Lines 197-202.


Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he ?

Lines 213, 214.

Satire or sense, alas ! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

Lines 307, 308.


Prudence, whose glass presents the approaching jail ;
Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale,
Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs,
And solid pudding against empty praise.

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.

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