The Works of Alexander Pope, Volume 5 (Google eBook)

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J. F. Dove, St. John's Square, 1822
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Page 291 - Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire, CHAOS! is restored; Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; And universal darkness buries all.
Page 24 - Boileau has so very well enlarged upon in the preface to his works, that wit and fine writing doth not consist so much in advancing things that are new, as in giving things that are known an agreeable turn.
Page 195 - O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme! Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull, Strong without rage, without o'er-flowing full.
Page 369 - How fluent nonsense trickles from his tongue ! How sweet the periods, neither said, nor sung! Still break the benches, Henley ! with thy strain, While Sherlock, Hare, and Gibson preach in vain. Oh, great restorer of the good old stage, Preacher at once, and zany of thy age ! Oh, worthy thou of Egypt's wise abodes, A decent priest, where monkeys were the gods...
Page 246 - As fancy opens the quick springs of sense, We ply the memory, we load the brain, Bind rebel wit, and double chain on chain, Confine the thought, to exercise the breath, And keep them in the pale of words till death.
Page 288 - In vain, in vain ! The all-composing hour Resistless falls ; the Muse obeys the power. She comes ! she comes ! the sable throne...
Page 248 - Some gentle JAMES, to bless the land again; To stick the Doctor's Chair into the Throne, Give law to Words, or war with Words alone, Senates and Courts with Greek and Latin rule, And turn the Council to a Grammar School! For sure, if Dulness sees a grateful Day, 'Tis in the shade of Arbitrary Sway.
Page 338 - What City Swans once sung within the walls; Much she revolves their arts, their ancient praise, And sure succession down from Heywood's days.
Page 252 - Thy mighty scholiast, whose unwearied pains Made Horace dull, and humbled Milton's strains. Turn what they will to verse, their toil is vain, Critics like me shall make it prose again.
Page 336 - Here she beholds the chaos dark and deep, Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep, 'Till genial Jacob, or a warm third day, Call forth each mass, a poem, or a play; How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie, How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry ; Maggots half-form'd in rhyme exactly meet, And learn to crawl upon poetic feet.

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