The Works of the English Poets: Pope

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Page 85 - HAPPY the man whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground ; Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire ; Whose trees in Summer yield him shade, In Winter fire.
Page 111 - Where a new world leaps out at his command, And ready nature waits upon his hand ; When the ripe colours...
Page 105 - Though oft the ear the open vowels tire; While expletives their feeble aid do join; And ten low words oft creep in one dull line: While they ring round the same unvaried chimes With sure returns of still expected rhymes: Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze...
Page 159 - How lov'd , how honour'd once , avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot; A heap of dust alone remains of thee, 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
Page 47 - Aonian maids, Delight no more — O thou my voice inspire Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire ! Rapt into future times, the Bard...
Page 137 - Hampton takes its name. Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home; Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey, Dost sometimes counsel take— and sometimes tea. Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; In various talk th...
Page 86 - VITAL spark of heavenly flame ! Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame ! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying : Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying ! Cease, fond nature ! cease thy strife, And let me languish into life ! Hark, they whisper ; angels say,
Page 132 - Now awful beauty puts on all its arms ; The fair each moment rises in her charms, Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, And calls forth all the wonders of her face : Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.
Page 103 - Some to Conceit alone their taste confine, And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line; Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit; One glaring Chaos and wild heap of wit. Poets, like painters, thus, unskill'd to trace The naked nature and the living grace, With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part, And hide with ornaments their want of art.
Page 129 - And love of ombre, after death survive. For when the fair in all their pride expire, To their first elements their souls retire : The...

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