Alexander Pope ( 10 of 261 )
Constant at Church and 'Change; his gains were sure;
His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.
Constant at Church and 'Change; his gains were sure;
His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.
There are, to whom my satire seems too bold;
Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough,
And something read more
There are, to whom my satire seems too bold;
Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough,
And something said of Chartres much too rough.
Here files of pins extend their shining rows,
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux.
Here files of pins extend their shining rows,
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not read more
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
At length corruption, like a general flood
(So long by watchful ministers withstood),
Shall deluge all; and read more
At length corruption, like a general flood
(So long by watchful ministers withstood),
Shall deluge all; and avarice, creeping on,
Spread like a low-born mist, and blot the sun.
The heart resolves this matter in a trice,
"Men only feel the smart, but not the vice."
The heart resolves this matter in a trice,
"Men only feel the smart, but not the vice."
Pretty! in amber to observe the forms
Of hairs, of straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
read more
Pretty! in amber to observe the forms
Of hairs, of straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there.
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Satire or sense, alas! Can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
Satire or sense, alas! Can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
But honest instinct comes a volunteer;
Sure never to o'er-shoot, but just to hit,
While still too read more
But honest instinct comes a volunteer;
Sure never to o'er-shoot, but just to hit,
While still too wide or short in human wit.
