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Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed was the ninth beatitude.

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
Ninth
Expects
Disappointed
Blessed
Shall
Nothing
Never
Men
Beatitude

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Act well your part, there all the honour lies.
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Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
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All chance, direction, which thou canst not see
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He who serves his brother best gets nearer God than all the rest.
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In pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies All quit their sphere and rush into the skies. Pride still is aiming at the bless'd abodes, Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
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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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Remembrance and reflection how allied. What thin partitions divides sense from thought.
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A long, exact, and serious comedy In every scene some moral let it teach, And, if it can, at once both please and preach.
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The dances ended, all the fairy train For pinks and daisies search'd the flow'ry plain.
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What then remains, but well our power to use, And keep good-humor still whate'er we lose? And trust me, dear, good-humor can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.
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Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?
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Our plenteous streams a various race supply, The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye, The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd, The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold, Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, And pikes, the tyrants of the wat'ry plains.
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From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.
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Content if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view, The learn'd reflect on what before they knew.
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Nature made every fop to plague his brother, Just as one beauty mortifies another.
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O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize, And make my tongue victorious as her eyes.
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I have more zeal than wit.
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Know then thyself, presume not God to scan The proper study of mankind is man.
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Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
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As some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire While expletives their feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.
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