*

AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM.

Part i. Line 9.

'Tis with our judgments as our watches; none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.

Line 153.

And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.

Part ii. Line 215.

A little learning is a dangerous thing.
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.

Line 232.

Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise,

Line 297.

True wit is nature to advantage dressed,
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed.

Line 357.

That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

Line 362.

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to dance.

Line 365.

The sound must seem an echo to the sense.

Line 525.

To err is human: to forgive, divine.

Part iii. Line 625.

For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

* * * * *

ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY.

Line 54.

By strangers honored and by strangers mourned

* * * * *

And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances and the public show.

* * * * *

THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.

Canto ii. Line 7.

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.

Canto ii. Line 17.

If to her share some female errors fall,
Look on her face, and you'll forget them all.

Canto iii. Line 16.

At every word a reputation dies.

Line 21.

The hungry judges soon the sentence sign,
And wretches hang, that jurymen may dine.

* * * * *

SATIRES AND IMITATIONS OF HORACE
Prologue, Line 1.
Shut, shut the door, good John.

Line 12.

E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me.

Line 18.

Who pens a stanza when he should engross.

Line 127.

As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.

Line 197.

Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,

Line 201.

Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And without sneering teach the rest to sneer.

Line 308.

Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

Line 333.

Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
Book ii. Satire i. Line 6.
Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.

Line 69.

Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet
To run a muck, and tilt at all I meet.

Line