Alexander Pope on Poets
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“Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride! They had no poet, and they died.”
“And he whose fustian's so sublimely bad, It is not poetry, but prose run mad.”
“Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me, just at dinner-time.”
“Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend, With whom my muse began, with whom shall end.”
“While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves to give their readers sleep.”
“Poets like painters, thus unskill'd to trace The naked nature and the living grace, With gold and jewels cover every part, And hide with ornaments their want of art.”
“The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year.”
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