Essai sur l'homme: poëme philosophique par Alexandre Pope, en cinq langues, savoir: anglois, latin, italien, françois & allemand
König, 1772 - 351 pages
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Page 7 - Lives through all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent : Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.
Page 1 - Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, And now a bubble burst, and now a world.
Page 9 - KNOW then thyself, presume not God to scan; The proper study of mankind is man. Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, A being darkly wise, and rudely great : With too much knowledge for the sceptic side, With too much weakness for the stoic's pride, He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest...
Page 6 - To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? Just as absurd for any part to claim To be another, in this...
Page 1 - Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate All but the page prescribed, their present state: From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Or who could suffer being here below ? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
Page 9 - With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride, He hangs between, in doubt to act or rest; In doubt to deem himself a God or Beast; In doubt his mind or body to prefer; Born but to die, and...
Page 5 - The scale of sensual, mental powers ascends : Mark how it mounts to man's imperial race, From the green myriads in the peopled grass...
Page 35 - tis the price of toil; The knave deserves it, when he tills the soil, The knave deserves it, when he tempts the main, Where folly fights for kings, or dives for gain. The good man may be weak, be indolent; Nor is his claim to plenty, but content.
Page 37 - But by your father's worth if yours you rate, Count me those only who were good and great. Go! if your ancient but ignoble blood Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood, Go! and pretend your family is young; Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards? Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.
Page 20 - Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat ? Loves of his own and raptures swell the note.