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So vast is art, so narrow human wit.

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
Genius
Science
Art
Human
Humans
Narrow
Wit
Vast
Architecture

More quotes by Alexander Pope

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The Right Divine of Kings to govern wrong.
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And not a vanity is given in vain.
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Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, Our greatest evil, or our greatest good.
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Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
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Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools and pageant of a day So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow For others' good, or melt at others' woe.
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The search of our future being is but a needless, anxious, and haste to be knowing, sooner than we can, what, without all this solicitude, we shall know a little later.
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Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust.
Alexander Pope
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Oh! blest with temper, whose unclouded ray Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day.
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What so pure, which envious tongues will spare? Some wicked wits have libell'd all the fair, With matchless impudence they style a wife, The dear-bought curse, and lawful plague of life A bosom serpent, a domestic evil, A night invasion, and a mid-day devil Let not the wise these sland'rous words regard, But curse the bones of ev'ry living bard.
Alexander Pope
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See the wild Waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad Sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very Tombs now vanish'd like their dead!
Alexander Pope
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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.
Alexander Pope
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Tis use alone that sanctifies expense And splendor borrow all her rays from sense.
Alexander Pope
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Chiefs who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer-days like grasshoppers rejoice - A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice.
Alexander Pope
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Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
Alexander Pope
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Why did I write? What sin to me unknown dipped me in ink, my parents , or my own?
Alexander Pope
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On wings of wind came flying all abroad.
Alexander Pope
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O happiness! our being's end and aim! Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate'er thy name: That something still which prompts the eternal sigh, For which we bear to live, or dare to die.
Alexander Pope
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And little eagles wave their wings in gold.
Alexander Pope
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But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.
Alexander Pope
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Interspersed in lawn and opening glades, Thin trees arise that shun each others' shades.
Alexander Pope