Form'd by thy converse, happily to steer

From grave to gay, from lively to severe.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Essay on Man. Epistle iv. Line 379.

Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace

The day's disasters in his morning face;

Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;

Full well the busy whisper circling round

Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd.

Yet was he kind, or if severe in aught,

The love he bore to learning was in fault;

The village all declar'd how much he knew,

'T was certain he could write and cipher too.

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774): The Deserted Village. Line 199.

Happy who in his verse can gently steer

From grave to light, from pleasant to severe.

John Dryden (1631-1701): The Art of Poetry. Canto i. Line 75.

Happy who in his verse can gently steer

From grave to light, from pleasant to severe.

Nicholas Boileau-Despreaux (1636-1711): The Art of Poetry. Canto i. Line 75.

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard;

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 7.