The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there.
Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 169.
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning;
And he whose fustian 's so sublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but prose run mad.
Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 186.
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.[327:2]
Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 197.