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And die of nothing but a rage to live.

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
Pain
Death
Live
Nothing
Quickness
Rage
Dies

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Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell, For sober, studious days!
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But Satan now is wiser than of yore, and tempts by making rich, not making poor.
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Strength of mind is exercise, not rest.
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Monuments, like men, submit to fate.
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The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
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A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling state.
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With sharpen'd sight pale Antiquaries pore, Th' inscription value, but the rust adore. This the blue varnish, that the green endears The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years.
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To what base ends, and by what abject ways, Are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise!
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Tis strange the miser should his cares employTo gain those riches he can ne'er enjoyIs it less strange the prodigal should wasteHis wealth to purchase what he ne'er can taste?
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The meeting points the sacred hair dissever From the fair head, forever, and forever! Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies.
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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.
Alexander Pope
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Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land? All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
Alexander Pope
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In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, And Hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound.
Alexander Pope
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The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read With loads of learned lumber in his head.
Alexander Pope
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On cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.
Alexander Pope
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How loved, how honored once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot A heap of dust alone remains of thee 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
Alexander Pope
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Pride is still aiming at the best houses: Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell aspiring to be angels men rebel.
Alexander Pope
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A gen'rous heart repairs a sland'rous tongue.
Alexander Pope
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Truth needs not flowers of speech.
Alexander Pope
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Poets heap virtues, painters gems, at will, And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill.
Alexander Pope