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Means Not, But Blunders Round About A Meaning; And He Whose Fustian 's So Sublimely Bad, It Is Not Poetry, But Prose Run Mad.
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Means not, but blunders round about a meaning;
And he whose fustian 's so sublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but prose run mad.
-- Alexander Pope (1688-1744)
-- Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, Prologue to the Satires, Line 186
Related:
No creature smarts so little as a fool. -- Alexander Pope (1688-1744) -- Epistle to Dr.
Arbuthnot, Prologue to the Satires, Line 84...
That not in fancy's maze he wander'd long, But stoop'd to truth, and moraliz'd his song.
-- Alexander Pope (1688-1744) -- Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, Prologue to the Satires, Line 340...
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?
-- Alexander Pope (1688-1744) -- Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, Prologue to the Satires, Line 213...
E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me. -- Alexander Pope (1688-1744) -- Epistle to Dr.
Arbuthnot, Prologue to the Satires, Line 12...
On wings of winds came flying all abroad." -- Alexander Pope (1688-1744) -- Epistle to Dr.
Arbuthnot, Prologue to the Satires, Line 218...
Obliged by hunger and request of friends. -- Alexander Pope (1688-1744) -- Epistle to Dr.
Arbuthnot, Prologue to the Satires, Line 44...
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust. -- Alexander Pope (1688-1744) -- Epistle to Dr.
Arbuthnot, Prologue to the Satires, Line 333...
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
-- Alexander Pope (1688-1744) -- Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, Prologue to the Satires, Line 5...
Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.
-- Alexander Pope (1688-1744) -- Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, Prologue to the Satires, Line 315...