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Of all the causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgement, and misguide the mind, What the weak head with strongest bias rules, Is PRIDE, the never-failing vice of fools.

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
Failing
Vice
Fool
Strongest
Head
Vices
Causes
Rules
Conspire
Mind
Blind
Erring
Never
Weak
Bias
Men
Pride
Judgement
Failure
Fools

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Most authors steal their works, or buy.
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But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse Sharp Boreas blows, and nature feels decay, Time conquers all, and we must time obey.
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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?
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By music minds an equal temper know, Nor swell too high, nor sink too low. . . . . Warriors she fires with animated sounds. Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds.
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So upright Quakers please both man and God.
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If, presume not to God to scan The proper study of Mankind is Man. Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state, a being darkly wise, and rudely great.
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The difference is as great between The optics seeing as the objects seen. All manners take a tincture from our own Or come discolor'd through out passions shown Or fancy's beam enlarges, multiplies, Contracts, inverts, and gives ten thousand dyes.
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But honest instinct comes a volunteer Sure never to o'er-shoot, but just to hit, While still too wide or short in human wit.
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Learn from the birds what food the thickets yield Learn from the beasts the physic of the field The arts of building from the bee receive Learn of the mole to plow, the worm to weave.
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Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
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Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glittering thoughts struck out at ev'ry line Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
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Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
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Words are like Leaves and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.
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In vain sedate reflections we would make When half our knowledge we must snatch, not take.
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Rogues in rags are kept in countenance by rogues in ruffles.
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A perfect Judge will read each work of Wit With the same spirit that its author writ: Survey the Whole, nor seek slight faults to find Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind.
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Wholesome solitude, the nurse of sense!
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How happy is the blameless vestal's lot? The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
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Charm strikes the sight, but merit wins the soul.
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Physicians are in general the most amiable companions and the best friends, as well as the most learned men I know.
Alexander Pope