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Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.

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
Eye
Roll
May
Strikes
Soul
Vain
Beauties
Sight
Charms
Pretty
Wins
Beauty
Strike
Eyes
Charm
Winning
Merit

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Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.
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Vice is a monster of so frightful mien As to be hated needs but to be seen Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.
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Still when the lust of tyrant power succeeds, some Athens perishes, or some Tully bleeds.
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Superstition is the spleen of the soul.
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Our judgments, like our watches, none go just alike, yet each believes his own
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Pretty conceptions, fine metaphors, glittering expressions, and something of a neat cast of verse are properly the dress, gems, or loose ornaments of poetry.
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Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be, In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.
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Do you find yourself making excuses when you do not perform? Shed the excuses and face reality. Excuses are the loser's way out. They will mar your credibility and stunt your personal growth.
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Genius creates, and taste preserves.
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Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are fluttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack And leave your friends and go. O never fear, lads, naught's to dread, Look not to left nor right: In all the endless road you tread There's nothing but the night.
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The pure and noble, the graceful and dignified, simplicity of language is nowhere in such perfection as in the Scriptures and Homer. The whole book of Job, with regard both to sublimity of thought and morality, exceeds, beyond all comparison, the most noble parts of Homer.
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Condition, circumstance, is not the thing Bliss is the same in subject or in king.
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The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife, / To help me through this long disease, my life.
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Ye gods, annihilate but space and time, And make two lovers happy.
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Fortune in men has some small diff'rence made, One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade, The cobbler apron'd, and the parson gown'd, The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd.
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Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
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Why has not Man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly. Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n.
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Still follow sense, of ev'ry art the soul, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole.
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Oh, sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise. By mountains pil'd on mountains to the skies? Heav'n still with laughter the vain toil surveys, And buries madmen in the heaps they raise.
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Astrologers that future fates foreshow.
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