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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.

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
Needs
Familiar
Mien
Endure
Frightful
Embrace
Monster
Seen
Vice
Face
Monsters
Faces
Vices
Firsts
Hated
First
Pity

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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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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.
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A good-natured man has the whole world to be happy out of.
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Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.
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Wit in conversation is only a readiness of thought and a facility of expression, or a quick conception and an easy delivery.
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While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.
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Be niggards of advice on no pretense For the worst avarice is that of sense.
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There is a certain majesty in simplicity which is far above all the quaintness of wit.
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Intestine war no more our passions wage, And giddy factions bear away their rage.
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And each blasphemer quite escape the rod, Because the insult's not on man, but God?
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It is sure the hardest science to forget!
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Calm, thinking villains, whom no faith could fix, Of crooked counsels and dark politics.
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There should be, methinks, as little merit in loving a woman for her beauty as in loving a man for his prosperity both being equally subject to change.
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See how the World its Veterans rewards! A Youth of Frolics, an old Age of Cards Fair to no purpose, artful to no end, Young without Lovers, old without a Friend A Fop their Passion, but their Prize a Sot Alive ridiculous, and dead forgot.
Alexander Pope
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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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But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat, The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat, To closer shades the panting flocks remove Ye gods! And is there no relief for love?
Alexander Pope
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O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize, And make my tongue victorious as her eyes.
Alexander Pope
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All looks yellow to a jaundiced eye.
Alexander Pope
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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.
Alexander Pope
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'Tis not enough your counsel still be true Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do.
Alexander Pope