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

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Nature made every fop to plague his brother, Just as one beauty mortifies another.
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Love, Hope, and Joy, fair pleasure's smiling train, Hate, Fear, and Grief, the family of pain, These mix'd with art, and to due bounds confin'd Make and maintain the balance of the mind.
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A youth of frolic, an old age of cards.
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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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Who know but He, whose hand the lightning forms, Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms, Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind.
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A man of business may talk of philosophy a man who has none may practice it.
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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.
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At every trifle take offense, that always shows great pride or little sense.
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Horses (thou say'st) and asses men may try, And ring suspected vessels ere they buy But wives, a random choice, untried they take They dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake Then, nor till then, the veil's removed away, And all the woman glares in open day.
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Vices and virtues are of a strange nature, for the more we have, the fewer we think we have.
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Nor Fame I slight, nor her favors call.
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If it be the chief point of friendship to comply with a friends motions and inclinations, he possesses this in a eminent degree he lies down when I sit, and walks when I walk, which is more than many good friends can pretend to do.
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Pleas'd look forward, pleas'd to look behind,And count each birthday with a grateful mind.
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So man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
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And little eagles wave their wings in gold.
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Cursed be the verse, how well so e'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe.
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To swear is neither brave, polite, nor wise.
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Every woman is at heart a rake.
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Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide,Or gave his father grief but when he died.
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Search then the ruling passion: This clue, once found, unravels all the rest.
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