Men are more satirical from vanity than from malice.
Satire is focused bitterness.
You can't make up anything anymore. The world itself is a satire. All you're doing is recording it.
And coxcombs vanquish Berkeley by a grin.
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
For her own breakfast she'll project a scheme, Nor take her tea without a stratagem.
She knows her man, and when you rant and swear, Can draw you to her with a single hair.
In general satire, every man perceives A slight attack, yet neither fears nor grieves.
Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.
A fondness for satire indicates a mind pleased with irritating others for myself, I never could find amusement in killing flies.
The thrice three Muses mourning for the death Of learning, late deceas'd in beggary, That is some satire, keen and critical.
If not to some peculiar end design'd Study 's the specious trifling of the mind, Or is at best a secondary aim, A chase for sport alone, and not for game.
The booby father craves a booby son, And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.
Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, And the sad burden of some merry song. POPE: Satire i., Bk. ii., Line 76. But 't was a maxim he had often tried, That right was right, and there he would abide.
For virtue's self may too much zeal be had; The worst of madmen is a saint run mad. POPE: Satire iv., Line 26. There is a land of pure delight, Where saints immortal reign.
A dearth of words a woman need not fear; But 't is a task indeed to learn to hear: In that the skill of conversation lies; That shows or makes you both polite and wise.
For I who hold sage Homer's rule the best, Welcome the coming, speed the going guest. POPE: Satire ii., Line 159. So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl, The feast of reason and the flow of soul. POPE: Satire i., Line 6. The whining schoolboy, with his satchel, And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school.
Whoe'er offends at some unlucky time Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme. POPE: Satire i., Bk. ii., Line 76. Verse sweetens toil, however rude the sound; She feels no biting pang the while she sings.
Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run a muck, and tilt at all I meet; I only wear it in a land of Hectors, Thieves, supercargoes, sharpers, and directors. POPE: Satire i., Line 69. Prepare for rhyme I'll publish, right or wrong; Fools are my th
Talk what you will of taste, my friend, you'll find Two of a face as soon as of a mind. POPE: Satire vi., Line 268. Good native Taste, tho' rude, is seldom wrong, Be it in music, painting, or in song: But this, as well as other faculties, Improves with ag
Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join The varying verse, the full resounding line, The long majestic march, and energy divine. POPE: Satire v., Line 267. Some fiery fop, with new commission vain, Who sleeps on brambles till he kills his man; Some f
Years following years, steal something every day; At last they steal us from ourselves away. POPE: Satire vi., Line 72. I sigh not over vanished years, But watch the years that hasten by. Look, how they come, a mingled crowd Of bright and dark, but rapid
The end of the human race will be that it will eventually die of civilization.
I'll publish, right or wrong: / Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.