As shades more sweetly recommend the light,
So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.

For works may have more wit than does 'em good,
As bodies perish thro' excess of blood.

WIT. (Parties in)

POPE.

Some valuing those of their own side of mind, Still make themselves the measure of mankind! Fondly we think we honour merit then, When we but praise ourselves in other men. Parties in wit attend on those of state, And public faction doubles private hate. Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rose, In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux : But sense surviv'd when merry jests were past, For rising merit will buoy up at last.

POPE.

WOOLSEY. (His Farewell to Greatness) So farewell to the little good you bear me. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost; And,-when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening,-nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp, and glory of this world, I hate ye; I feel my heart new open'd: O, how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

WOMEN.

SHAKSPEARE

(Dressed for Show)

Her women, insolent and self-caress'd,
By vanity's unwearied finger dress'd,
Forgot the blush, that virgin fears impart
To modest cheeks, and borrow'd one from art;
Were just such trifles, without worth or use,
As silly pride and idleness produce;

Curl'd, scented, furbelow'd, and flounc'd around,
With feet too delicate to touch the ground,
They stretch'd the neck, and roll'd the wanton eye,
And sigh'd for ev'ry fool that flutter'd by.

CowPER.

WOMEN. (One Impertinence expels another)

Oft, when the world imagine women stray,
The sylphs thro' mystic mazes guide their way;
Thro' all the giddy circle they pursue,
And old impertinence expel by new.
What tender maid but must a victim fall
To one man's treat, but for another's ball?
When Florio speaks, what virgin could withstand,
If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand?
With varying vanities, from ev'ry part,
They shift the moving toy-shop of their heart;
Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword
knots strive,

Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive.
This erring mortals levity may call ;

Oh blind to truth! the sylphs contrive it all.

POPE.

WORDS. (Affectation in)

O dear discretion, how his words are suited!
The fool hath planted in his memory

An army of good words: And I do know
A many fools, that stand in better place,
Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word
Defy the matter.

SHAKSPEARE.

WORDS. (Satire on excessive Study of)

Since man from beast by words is known, Words are man's province, words we teach alone. When reason doubtful, like the Samian letter, Points him two ways, the narrower is the better. Plac'd at the door of learning, youth to guide, We never suffer it to stand too wide.

To ask, to guess, to know, as they commence,
As fancy opens the quick springs of sense,
We ply the memory, we load the brain,
Blind rebel wit, and double chain on chain,
Confine the thought, to exercise the breath;
And keep them in the pale of words till death.
Whate'er the talents, or howe'er design'd,
We hang one jingling padlock on the mind:
A poet the first day he dips his quill;
And what the last? a very poet still.

WORLD. (False Confidence of)

POPE.

Retort the charge, and let the world be told
She boasts a confidence she does not hold;
That, conscious of her crimes, she feels instead
A cold misgiving, and a killing dread:
That while in health the ground of her support
Is madly to forget that life is short;

That sick she trembles, knowing she must die,
Her hope presumption, and her faith a lie;
That while she dotes, and dreams that she believes,
She mocks her Maker, and herself deceives,
Her utmost reach, historical assent,

The doctrines warp'd to what they never meant ;
That truth itself is in her head as dull
And useless as a candle in a scull,

And all her love of God a groundless claim,
A trick upon the canvass, painted flame.

WORLD. (Infectious)

COWPER.

The world's infectious; few bring back at eve
Immaculate the manners of the morn.
Something we thought, is blotted; we resolv'd,
Is shaken; we renounc'd, returns again.
Each salutation may slide in a sin
Unthought before, or fix a former flaw.

Nor is it strange, light, motion, concourse, noise,
All scatter us abroad; though outward bound,
Neglectful of our home affairs, flies off
In fume and dissipation, quits her charge,
And leaves the breast unguarded to the foe.

WORLD. (Our Embarking in)

YOUNG.

Self-flatter'd, inexperienc'd, high in hope,

When young, with sanguine cheer and streamers

gay,

We cut our cable, launch into the world,

And fondly dream each wind and star our friend;
All in some darling enterprise embark'd:

But where is he can fathom its event?
Amid a multitude of artless hands,

Ruin's sure perquisite ! her lawful prize!

Some steer aright: but the black blast blows hard,

And puffs them wide of hope: with hearts of proof
Full against wind and tide, some win their way;
And when strong effort has deserv'd the port,
And tugg'd it into view, 'tis won! 'tis lost!
They strike; and, while they triumph, they expire.
In stress of weather, most: some sink outright;
O'er them and o'er their names the billows close;
To-morrow knows not they were ever born:
Others a short memorial leave behind;

Like a flag floating, when the bark's ingulph'd,
It floats a moment, and is seen no more;
One Cæsar lives, a thousand are forgot.
How few beneath auspicious planets born,
With swelling sails make good the promis'd port,
With all their wishes freighted! Yet even these,
Freighted with all their wishes, soon complain :
They still are men; and when is man secure?
As fatal time as storm! the rush of years

Beats down their strength: their numberless escapes

In ruin end and now their proud success
But plants new terrors on the victor's brow:
What pain to quit the world just made their own,
Their nest so deeply down'd, and built so high!
Too low they build, who build beneath the stars.
YOUNG.
WORLD. (Satan's First Discovery of)

As when a scout,

Through dark and desert ways with peril gone
All night, at last, by break of cheerful dawn,
Obtains the brow of some high-climbing hill,
Which to his eye discovers unaware

The goodly prospect of some foreign land
First seen, or some renown'd metropolis
With glist'ring spires and pinnacles adorn'd,

Which now the rising sun gilds with his beams: