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Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare And beauty draws us with a single hair.

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
Fairs
Fair
Draws
Hair
Single
Ensnare
Beauty
Tresses
Race
Men
Imperial

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Women, as they are like riddles in being unintelligible, so generally resemble them in this, that they please us no longer once we know them.
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Some have at first for wits, then poets passed, Turned critics next, and proved plain fools at last.
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I am satisfied to trifle away my time, rather than let it stick by me.
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Who combats bravely is not therefore brave, He dreads a death-bed like the meanest slave: Who reasons wisely is not therefore wise,- His pride in reasoning, not in acting lies.
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Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labor when the end was rest, Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.
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Blest paper-credit! last and best supply! That lends corruption lighter wings to fly!
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Wholesome solitude, the nurse of sense!
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Tis use alone that sanctifies expense And splendor borrow all her rays from sense.
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Words are like Leaves and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.
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The man that loves and laughs must sure do well.
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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.
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When rumours increase, and when there is an abundance of noise and clamour, believe the second report.
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What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, Is virtue's prize.
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To the Elysian shades dismiss my soul, where no carnation fades.
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Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.
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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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Of all affliction taught a lover yet, 'Tis true the hardest science to forget.
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No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n, Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n But such plain roofs as Piety could raise, And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
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In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend.
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Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed was the ninth beatitude.
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