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Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.

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
Faces
Ease
Fall
Errors
Look
Faults
Belles
Might
Female
Graceful
Looks
Pride
Sweetness
Share
Ems
Face
Void
Forget
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On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.
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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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A perfect woman's but a softer man.
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You beat your Pate, and fancy Wit will come: Knock as you please, there's no body at home.
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In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fixed, 'tis fixed as in a frost.
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Chaos of thought and passion, all confused Still by himself abused or disabused Created half to rise, and half to fall Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled,- The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.
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Pretty conceptions, fine metaphors, glittering expressions, and something of a neat cast of verse are properly the dress, gems, or loose ornaments of poetry.
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All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul.
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Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
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In faith and hope the world will disagree, but all mankind's concern is charity.
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Monuments, like men, submit to fate.
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A long, exact, and serious comedy In every scene some moral let it teach, And, if it can, at once both please and preach.
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Is it, in Heav'n, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender or too firm a heart, To act a lover's or a Roman's part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
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When to the Permanent is sacrificed the Mutable, the prize is thine: the drop returneth whence it came. The Open Path leads to the changeless change - Non-Being, the glorious state of Absoluteness, the Bliss past human thought.
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Is there a parson much bemused in beer, a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, a clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, who pens a stanza when he should engross?
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What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
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Genius involves both envy and calumny.
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Count all th' advantage prosperous Vice attains, 'Tis but what Virtue flies from and disdains: And grant the bad what happiness they would, One they must want--which is, to pass for good.
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To be angry is to revenge the faults of others on ourselves.
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Fool, 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam: Know, sense, like charity, begins at home.
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