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

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But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.
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Nothing can be more shocking and horrid than one of our kitchens sprinkled with blood, and abounding with the cries of expiring victims or with the limbs of dead animals scattered or hung up here and there.
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A perfect judge will read each word of wit with the same spirit that its author writ.
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Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense weigh thy opinion against Providence.
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Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
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Heaven gave to woman the peculiar grace To spin, to weep, and cully human race.
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Gentle dullness ever loves a joke.
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This long disease, my life.
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The character of covetousness, is what a man generally acquires more through some niggardliness or ill grace in little and inconsiderable things, than in expenses of any consequence.
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Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend.
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The light of Heaven restore Give me to see, and Ajax asks no more.
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Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me, just at dinner-time.
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Taste, that eternal wanderer, which flies From head to ears, and now from ears to eyes.
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Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mixed with Gods, his lov'd idea lies: O write it not, my hand - the name appears Already written - wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeyes.
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Charm strikes the sight, but merit wins the soul.
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But touch me, and no minister so sore. Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme, Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, And the sad burthen of some merry song.
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The man that loves and laughs must sure do well.
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Who are next to knaves? Those that converse with them.
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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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Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature's God.
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