Page 327

Alexander Pope. (1688–1744) (continued)

3526

No creature smarts so little as a fool.

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 84.

3527

Destroy his fib or sophistry—in vain!
The creature ’s at his dirty work again.

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 91.

3528

As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lisp’d in numbers, for the numbers came.

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 127.

3529

Pretty! in amber to observe the forms
Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! 1
The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there.

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 169.

3530

Means not, but blunders round about a meaning;
And he whose fustian ’s so sublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but prose run mad.

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 186.

3531

Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne. 2

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 197.

3532

Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And without sneering teach the rest to sneer; 3
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike.

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 201.

3533

By flatterers besieg’d,
And so obliging that he ne’er oblig’d;
Like Cato, give his little senate laws, 4
And sit attentive to his own applause.

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 207.

3534

Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 213.

3535

“On wings of winds came flying all abroad.” 5

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 218.

3536

Cursed be the verse, how well so e’er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe.

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 283.

Note 1.
See Bacon, Quotation 40. [back]

Note 2.
See Denham, Quotation 4. [back]

Note 3.
When needs he must, yet faintly then he praises;
Somewhat the deed, much more the means he raises:
So marreth what he makes, and praising most, dispraises.
P. Fletcher: The Purple Island, canto vii. [back]

Note 4.
See Quotation 248. [back]

Note 5.
See Sternhold, Quotation 1. [back]

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