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If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shin’d,
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,
Lines 331, 332.
Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise,
rise ; Form'd by the converse, happily to steer From grave to gay, from lively to severe.
Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend.
That virtue only makes our bliss below;
Lines 397, 398
'Tis education forms the common mind; Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclin'd.
Lines 149, 150.
And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breath,
Lines 262, 263
Men, some to business, some to pleasure take ;
every woman is at heart a rake.
Epistle 11. Lines 215-218.
Who shall decide, when doctors disagree,
Lines 1, 2.
The ruling passion, be it what it will,
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 ;
Epistle 111. Lines 298-313.
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. 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.
Lines 351, 352.
To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite,
Lines 149, 150.
PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.
Who shames a scribbler ? Break one cobweb through,
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
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,
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ?
Lines 213, 214.
Satire or sense, alas ! can Sporus feel?
Lines 307, 308.
Prudence, whose glass presents the approaching jail ;
Next, o'er his books his eyes began to roll,