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The Dying Christian to His Soul (1712) -Vital spark of heav'nly flame! Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Stanza 1.

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
Dying
Vital
Trembling
Hope
Quit
Spark
Christian
Flames
Frame
Pain
Bliss
Flame
Soul
Quitting
Sparks
Mortals
Mortal
Ling
Rings
Hoping
Stanza
Flying
Ring
Heav

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Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
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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.
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On life's vast ocean diversely we sail. Reasons the card, but passion the gale.
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Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame, Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame, Averse alike to flatter or offend, Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.
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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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The dull flat falsehood serves for policy, and in the cunning, truth's itself a lie.
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Homer excels all the inventors of other arts in this: that he has swallowed up the honor of those who succeeded him.
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Still follow sense, of ev'ry art the soul, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole.
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Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who lost my heart while I preserv'd my sheep.
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Did some more sober critics come abroad? If wrong, I smil'd if right, I kiss'd the rod.
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Tis use alone that sanctifies expense And splendor borrow all her rays from sense.
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Unthought-of Frailties cheat us in the Wise.
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What is fame? a fancied life in others' breath.
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Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?
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Hope humbly then with trembling pinions soar Wait the great teacher, Death, and God adore What future bliss He gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
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Fools admire, but men of sense approve.
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Time conquers all, and we must time obey.
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What will a child learn sooner than a song?
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Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.
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What Reason weaves, by Passion is undone.
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