[Erik Olson]

First, Ben Jonson

XXIV. — TO THE PARLIAMENT.

There's reason good, that you good laws should make :
Men's manners ne'er were viler, for your sake.


LXXI.— ON COURT PARROT.

To pluck down mine, sets up new wits still;
Still 'tis his luck to praise me 'gainst his will.

To quote Pope is to readily feed this thread with material; I have done so here, almost at random. So much is lost when the context is, of course, which is to be lamented. Nevertheless...

YES, thank my stars! as early as I knew
This town, I had the sense to hate it too;

Yet like the Papist’s is the Poet’s state,
Poor and disarmed, and hardly worth your hate!

One, one man only breeds my just offence,
Whom crimes gave wealth, and wealth gave impudence:

For what has Virro painted, built, and planted?
Only to show, how many tastes he wanted.

On human actions reason tho’ you can,
It may be reason, but it is not man:

from The Essay on Criticism

If Maevius Scribble in Apollo's spight,
There are, who judge still worse than he can write...

Some have at first for Wits, then Poets past,
Turned Critics next, and proved plain Fools at last;
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy Mules are neither Horse or Ass.
Those half-learned Witlings, num'rous in our Isle,
As half-formed Insects on the Banks of Nile:
Unfinished Things, one knows not what to call,
Their Generation's so equivocal:
To tell 'em, would a hundred Tongues require,
Or one vain Wit's, that might a hundred tire...

All seems Infected that th' Infected spy,
As all looks yellow to the Jaundiced Eye.

John Frederick Nims is among my favorite proficients of the epigram.

Censorship

Love cautions, "Adults only!" While below
Death has the children to his filthy show.

Crutches and Canes

Feisty old men, their battle cry a cough,
Flourish their sticks at earth, to warn it off.

Proverb

"Can't put an old head on young shoulders." No?
Can too. Come closer, dear. You do it so.

Philosopher

He scowled at the barometer: "Will it rain?"
None heard, with all that pattering on the pane.

At Writers' Conference

"Well, love me, love my dog." I'll cuddle the mutt.
"And love me, love my poetry."
"And love me, love my poetry. love me,. love. myp"Love your whut?

Prolific

Of all the million words rank Grubber spewed,
Just two gave genuine pleasure: "To conclude, . . . "