Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him,
Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample,
Catullus scarcely has a decent poem,
I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example,
Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn
Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample;
But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one
Being with "Formosum Pastor Corydon."
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Who all in raptures their own works rehearse,
And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.
Who all in raptures their own works rehearse,
And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.
A poet is a bird of unearthly excellence, who escapes from his celestial realm arrives in this world warbling. If read more
A poet is a bird of unearthly excellence, who escapes from his celestial realm arrives in this world warbling. If we do not cherish him, he spreads his wings and flies back into his homeland.
There is a pleasure in poetic pains,
Which only poets know.
There is a pleasure in poetic pains,
Which only poets know.
"There's nothing great
Nor small," has said a poet of our day,
Whose voice will ring beyond read more
"There's nothing great
Nor small," has said a poet of our day,
Whose voice will ring beyond the curfew of eve
And not be thrown out by the matin's bell.
A poet not in love is out at sea;
He must have a lay-figure.
A poet not in love is out at sea;
He must have a lay-figure.
Happy the poet who with ease can steer
From grave to gay, from lively to severe.
[Lat., read more
Happy the poet who with ease can steer
From grave to gay, from lively to severe.
[Lat., Heureux qui, dans ses vers, sait d'une voix legere
Passer du grave au doux, du plaisant au severe.]
The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the read more
The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.
Verse is not written, it is bled; Out of the poet's abstract head. Words drip the poem on the page; read more
Verse is not written, it is bled; Out of the poet's abstract head. Words drip the poem on the page; Out of his grief, delight and rage.
Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name,
But England's Milton equals both in fame.
Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name,
But England's Milton equals both in fame.
