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Good-nature and good-sense must ever join To err is human, to forgive, divine.

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
Divine
Sense
Nature
Ever
Human
Join
Humans
Forgive
Must
Forgiveness
Good
Forgiving

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The finest minds, like the finest metals, dissolve the easiest.
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A work of art that contains theories is like an object on which the price tag has been left.
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Monuments, like men, submit to fate.
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Ask you what provocation I have had? The strong antipathy of good to bad.
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Know then thyself, presume not God to scan The proper study of mankind is man.
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And binding nature fast in fate, Left free the human will.
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Consult the genius of the place, that paints as you plant, and as you work.
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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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To buy books as some do who make no use of them, only because they were published by an eminent printer, is much as if a man should buy clothes that did not fit him, only because they were made by some famous tailor.
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In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fix'd: 't is fix'd as in a frost contracted all, retiring to the breast but strength of mind is exercise, not rest.
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Nature and nature's laws lay hid in the night. God said, Let Newton be! and all was light!
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E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me.
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What is it to be wise? 'Tis but to know how little can be known, To see all others' faults, and feel our own.
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Men must be taught as if you taught them not, and things unknown proposed as things forgot.
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All chance, direction, which thou canst not see
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Oh! blest with temper, whose unclouded ray Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day.
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Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for a time, leave us the weaker ever after.
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How loved, how honored once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot A heap of dust alone remains of thee 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
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Oh, sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise. By mountains pil'd on mountains to the skies? Heav'n still with laughter the vain toil surveys, And buries madmen in the heaps they raise.
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Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
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