Emotions and Feelings

Little strokes, Fell great oaks.

Do all the good you can, By all the means you can, In all the ways you can, In all the places you can, At all the times you can, To all the people you can, As long as ever you can.

Whoever you are, behold your master, He is, or was, or has to be. 13

See, the conquering hero comes! Sound the trumpet, beat the drums! 1

Religion blushing veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires. Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire Chaos! is restor’d: Light dies before thy uncreating word; Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall, And universal darkness buries all.

The Right Divine of Kings to govern wrong.

And proud his mistress’ orders to perform, Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm.

A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits.

A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead.

Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale, Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs, And solid pudding against empty praise.

Next o’er his books his eyes began to roll, In pleasing memory of all he stole.

Whether thou choose Cervantes’ serious air, Or laugh and shake in Rabelais’ easy chair.

I am his Highness’ 8 dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

Satire’s my weapon, but I’m too discreet To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.

I cannot sleep a wink.

Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.

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?”

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.

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