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Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?

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
Authors
Wit
Critics
Judgment
True
Partial

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The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, and wretches hang that jurymen may dine.
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For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crowned.The berries crackle, and the mill turns round ... At once they gratify their scent and taste.And frequent cups prolong the rich repast... Coffee (which makes the politician wise And see through all things with his half-shut eyes).
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Who dies in youth and vigour, dies the best.
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At length corruption, like a general flood (So long by watchful ministers withstood), Shall deluge all and avarice, creeping on, Spread like a low-born mist, and blot the sun.
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Whether with Reason, or with Instinct blest, Know, all enjoy that pow'r which suits them best.
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A man who admires a fine woman, has yet not more reason to wish himself her husband, than one who admired the Hesperian fruit, would have had to wish himself the dragon that kept it.
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Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.
Alexander Pope
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Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall And universal darkness buries all.
Alexander Pope
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I find myself hoping a total end of all the unhappy divisions of mankind by party-spirit, which at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.
Alexander Pope
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Men must be taught as if you taught them not, and things unknown proposed as things forgot.
Alexander Pope
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These riches are possess'd, but not enjoy'd!
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The season when to come, and when to go, to sing, or cease to sing, we never know.
Alexander Pope
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Fly, dotard, fly! With thy wise dreams and fables of the sky.
Alexander Pope
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If faith itself has different dresses worn, What wonder modes in wit should take their turn?
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Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
Alexander Pope
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Ye flowers that drop, forsaken by the spring, Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing, Ye trees that fade, when Autumn heats remove, Say, is not absence death to those who love?
Alexander Pope
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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.
Alexander Pope
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Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of fate, All but the page prescribed, their present state: From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Or who could suffer being here below?
Alexander Pope
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O peace! how many wars were waged in thy name.
Alexander Pope
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Most authors steal their works, or buy.
Alexander Pope