Emotions and Feelings

Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings, This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings; Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, Yet wit ne’er tastes, and beauty ne’er enjoys.

Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings, This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings; Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, Yet wit ne’er tastes, and beauty ne’er enjoys.

And he himself one vile antithesis.

Let Sporus tremble—“What? that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white curd of ass’s milk? Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel? Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?”

Let Sporus tremble—“What? that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white curd of ass’s milk? Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel? Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?”

This long disease, my life.

Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu’d, I said; Tie up the knocker! say I’m sick, I’m dead. The Dog-star rages!

Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend. 6

Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend. 6

Die of a rose in aromatic pain?

Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always to be blest.

Eye Nature’s walks, shoot folly as it flies, And catch the manners living as they rise: Laugh where we must, be candid where we can; But vindicate the ways of God to man.

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come: Knock as you please, there’s nobody at home.

Ye Gods! annihilate but space and time, And make two lovers happy.

“Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed” was the ninth beatitude.

The ruling passion, be it what it will, The ruling passion conquers reason still.

But thousands die, without or this or that, Die, and endow a college, or a cat.

Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But ev’ry woman is at heart a rake.

In men, we various ruling passions find; In women, two almost divide the kind; Those, only fix’d, they first or last obey, The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.

Wise wretch! with pleasures too refin’d to please; With too much spirit to be e’er at ease; With too much quickness ever to be taught; With too much thinking to have common thought. You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.

Wise wretch! with pleasures too refin’d to please; With too much spirit to be e’er at ease; With too much quickness ever to be taught; With too much thinking to have common thought. You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.

Oh name forever sad! forever dear! Still breath’d in sighs, still usher’d with a tear.

Oh name forever sad! forever dear! Still breath’d in sighs, still usher’d with a tear.

Now warm in love, now with’ring in my bloom, Lost in a convent’s solitary gloom!