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Nothing can be more shocking and horrid than one of our kitchens sprinkled with blood, and abounding with the cries of expiring victims or with the limbs of dead animals scattered or hung up here and there.
Alexander Pope
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Alexander Pope
Age: 56 †
Born: 1688
Born: May 21
Died: 1744
Died: May 30
Literary Historian
Poet
Translator
the City
Pope the Poet
Alexander I Pope
Alexander
I Pope
Kitchen
Horrid
Victim
Scattered
Cry
Cries
Animals
Limbs
Dead
Vegan
Expiring
Blood
Shocking
Abounding
Animal
Victims
Sprinkled
Nothing
Hung
Kitchens
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Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise.
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No more was seen the human form divine.
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The grave unites where e'en the great find rest, And blended lie th' oppressor and th' oppressed!
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A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!
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Sleep and death, two twins of winged race, Of matchless swiftness, but of silent pace.
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Drink is the feast of reason and the flow of soul.
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What nature wants, commodious gold bestows 'Tis thus we cut the bread another sows.
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Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think or bravely die?
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Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, of straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there.
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Oh! blest with temper, whose unclouded ray Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day.
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In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fix'd: 't is fix'd as in a frost contracted all, retiring to the breast but strength of mind is exercise, not rest.
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For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crowned.The berries crackle, and the mill turns round ... At once they gratify their scent and taste.And frequent cups prolong the rich repast... Coffee (which makes the politician wise And see through all things with his half-shut eyes).
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Oh, blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven.
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But see how oft ambition's aims are cross'd, and chiefs contend 'til all the prize is lost!
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The vanity of human life is like a river, constantly passing away, and yet constantly coming on.
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But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat, The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat, To closer shades the panting flocks remove Ye gods! And is there no relief for love?
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But Satan now is wiser than of yore, and tempts by making rich, not making poor.
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A wise physician, skill'd our wounds to heal, is more than armies to the public weal.
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Love the offender, yet detest the offense.
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Gentle dullness ever loves a joke.
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