Alexander Pope on Poetry
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“The varying verse, the full resounding line, The long majestic march, and energy divine.”
“A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.”
“Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale, Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs, And solid pudding against empty praise.”
“What woful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starv'd hackney sonneteer or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines.”
“Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe, Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear, Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear!”
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