Alexander Pope on Music
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“In a sadly pleasing strain Let the warbling lute complain.”
“Light quirks of music, broken and uneven, Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heav'n.”
“Music resembles poetry: in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach And which a master-hand alone can reach.”
“Hark! the numbers soft and clear, Gently steal upon the ear; Now louder, and yet louder rise And fill with spreading sounds the skies.”
“What woful stuff this madrigal would be In some starv'd hackney sonnetteer, or me! But let a Lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!”
“By music minds an equal temper know, Nor swell too high, nor sink too low. * * * * * Warriors she fires with animated sounds; Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds.”
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