Verbatim From Boileau.

UN JOUR DIT UN AUTEUR, ETC.

Once (says an author--where I need not say)
Two travellers found an oyster in their way;
Both fierce, both hungry; the dispute grew strong,
While, scale in hand, Dame Justice pass'd along.
Before her each with clamour pleads the laws,
Explain'd the matter and would win the cause.
Dame Justice, weighing long the doubtful right,
Takes, opens, swallows it, before their sight.
The cause of strife removed so rarely well,
'There,--take' (says Justice) 'take ye each a shell.
We thrive at Westminster on fools like you:
'Twas a fat oyster--live in peace--adieu.'

Alexander Pope

Alexander Pope was an English poet, best known for his satirical verse, including 'The Rape of the Lock' and 'The Dunciad'. He is the second-most frequently quoted writer in The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations after Shakespeare. Pope was one of the greatest English poets and the foremost poet of the early 18th century. He also translated Homer. Despite suffering from numerous health problems, Pope made a significant impact on English literature and is remembered for his sharp wit and mastery of the heroic couplet.

Alexander Pope

Epistle To Mrs Teresa Blount. On Her Leaving The Town After The Coronation.[1]

Alexander Pope, Simple Poetry

The Balance Of Europe.

Alexander Pope, Simple Poetry

Epitaph VI. On Mrs Corbet, Who Died Of A Cancer In Her Breast.

Alexander Pope, Simple Poetry

From An Essay On Man

Alexander Pope, Simple Poetry

English

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The Oyster And The Litigants.

Two pilgrims on the sand espied
An oyster thrown up by the tide.
In hope, both swallow'd ocean's fruit;
But ere the fact there came dispute.
While one stoop'd down to take the prey,
The other push'd him quite away.
Said he, ''Twere rather meet
To settle which shall eat.
Why, he who first the oyster saw
Should be its eater, by the law;
The other should but see him do it.'
Replied his mate, 'If thus you view it,
Thank God the lucky eye is mine.'
'But I've an eye not worse than thine,'
The other cried, 'and will be cursed,
If, too, I didn't see it first.'
'You saw it, did you? Grant it true,
I saw it then, and felt it too.'
Amidst this sweet affair,
Arrived a person very big,
Ycleped Sir Nincom Periwig.^[1]
They made him judge, ...

Jean de La Fontaine

Prologue To 'The Three Hours After Marriage'

Authors are judged by strange capricious rules;
The great ones are thought mad, the small ones fools:
Yet sure the best are most severely fated;
For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated.
Blockheads with reason men of sense abhor;
But fool 'gainst fool, is barbarous civil war.
Why on all authors, then, should critics fall?
Since some have writ, and shown no wit at all.
Condemn a play of theirs, and they evade it;
Cry, 'Damn not us, but damn the French, who made it.'
By running goods these graceless owlers gain;
Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain;
But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought,
Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common draught.
They pall Molière's and Lopez' sprightly strain,
And teach dull harlequins to grin in vain.
...

Alexander Pope

Epilogue[177] To The Satires. In Two Dialogues.

(WRITTEN IN MDCCXXXVIII.)


DIALOGUE I.

Fr. Not twice a twelvemonth you appear in print,
And when it comes, the court see nothing in 't.
You grow correct, that once with rapture writ,
And are, besides, too moral for a wit.
Decay of parts, alas! we all must feel--
Why now, this moment, don't I see you steal?
'Tis all from Horace; Horace long before ye
Said, 'Tories call'd him Whig, and Whigs a Tory;'
And taught his Romans, in much better metre,
'To laugh at fools who put their trust in Peter.'

But, Horace, sir, was delicate, was nice;
Bubo^[178] observes, he lash'd no sort of vice:
Horace would say, Sir Billy^[179] served the crown,
Blunt could do business, Huggins^[180] knew the town;
In Sappho touch the fail...

Alexander Pope

Satires And Epistles Of Horace Imitated. - Satire II. To Mr Bethel.

What, and how great, the virtue and the art
To live on little with a cheerful heart;
(A doctrine sage, but truly none of mine)
Let's talk, my friends, but talk before we dine;
Not when a gilt buffet's reflected pride
Turns you from sound philosophy aside;
Not when from plate to plate your eyeballs roll,
And the brain dances to the mantling bowl.

Hear Bethel's sermon, one not versed in schools,
But strong in sense, and wise without the rules.

Go, work, hunt, exercise! (he thus began)
Then scorn a homely dinner, if you can.
Your wine lock'd up, your butler stroll'd abroad,
Or fish denied (the river yet unthaw'd),
If then plain bread and milk will do the feat,
The pleasure lies in you, and not the meat.

Preach as I please, I doubt our curious me...

Alexander Pope

Satires And Epistles Of Horace Imitated. - Satire I. To Mr Fortescue.[121]

SATIRES AND EPISTLES OF HORACE IMITATED. -


ADVERTISEMENT.

The occasion of publishing these 'Imitations' was the clamour raised on some of my 'Epistles.' An answer from Horace was both more full, and of more dignity, than any I could have made in my own person; and the example of much greater freedom in so eminent a divine as Dr Donne, seemed a proof with what indignation and contempt a Christian may treat vice or folly, in ever so low or ever so high a station. Both these authors were acceptable to the princes and ministers under whom they lived. The satires of Dr Donne I versified, at the desire of the Earl of Oxford while he was Lord Treasurer, and of the Duke of Shrewsbury who had been Secretary of State; neither of whom looked upon a satire on vicious courts as any reflection on those they served in. And, i...

Alexander Pope

The Satires Of Dr John Donne, Dean Of St Paul's,[171] Versified.

'Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negarit Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes Mollius?'

HOR.

Satire II.

Yes; thank my stars! as early as I knew
This town, I had the sense to hate it too:
Yet here, as ev'n in Hell, there must be still
One giant-vice, so excellently ill,
That all beside, one pities, not abhors;
As who knows Sappho, smiles at other whores.

I grant that poetry's a crying sin;
It brought (no doubt) the Excise and Army in:
Catch'd like the plague, or love, the Lord knows how,
But that the cure is starving, all allow
Yet like the papist's is the poet's state,
Poor and disarm'd, and hardly worth your hate!

Here a lean bard, whose wit could never give
Himself a dinner,...

Alexander Pope