Language
Alexander Pope
All nature is but art, unknown to thee;
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance.
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
As some to church repair,
True wit is Nature to advantage dressed,
Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
Hills peep o’er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!
A little learning is a dangerous thing;
Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
Old politicians chew on wisdom past,
Consult the genius of the place in all.
And he, whose fustian’s so sublimely bad,
Pretty! in amber to observe the forms
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
Sir, I admit your gen’ral rule
Vital spark of heav’nly flame!
Edgar Allan Poe
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
Plutarco
He who cheats with an oath acknowledges that he is afraid of his enemy, but that he thinks little of God.
