1
Next o'er his books his eyes began to roll, In pleasing memory of all he stole.Alexander Pope
2
While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.Alexander Pope
3
Philosophy, that leaned on Heaven before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more.Alexander Pope
4
Poetic justice, with her lifted scale, Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs, And solid pudding against empty praise. Here she beholds the chaos dark and deep, Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep, Till genial Jacob, or a warm third day, Call forth each mass, a poem, or a play: How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie, How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry.Alexander Pope