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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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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
Men
God
Angel
Aiming
Pride
Aspiring
House
Rebel
Stills
Houses
Still
Angels
Best
Fell
Would
Gods

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Die of a rose in aromatic pain.
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In various talk th' instructive hours they past, Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last One speaks the glory of the British queen, And one describes a charming Indian screen A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes At every word a reputation dies.
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The lot of man - to suffer and to die.
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Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.
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The life of a wit is a warfare upon earth.
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Learn to live well, or fairly make your will You've play'd, and lov'd, and ate, and drank your fill: Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age Comes titt'ring on, and shoves you from the stage.
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Is not absence death to those who love?
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Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.
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While man exclaims, See all things for my use! See man for mine! replies a pamper'd goose.
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What riches give us let us then inquire: Meat, fire, and clothes. What more? Meat, clothes, and fire. Is this too little?
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On life's vast ocean diversely we sail, Reason the card, but passion is the gale Nor God alone in the still calm we find, He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind.
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The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.
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Some have at first for wits, then poets passed, Turned critics next, and proved plain fools at last.
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Our judgments, like our watches, none go just alike, yet each believes his own
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The cabinets of the sick and the closets of the dead have been ransacked to publish private letters and divulge to all mankind the most secret sentiments of friendship.
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Cursed be the verse, how well so e'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe.
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Every professional was once an amateur.
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Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast But shall the dignity of vice be lost?
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Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows.
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