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False happiness is like false money it passes for a time as well as the true, and serves some ordinary occasions but when it is brought to the touch, we find the lightness and alloy, and feel the loss.

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
True
Occasions
Find
False
Wells
Brought
Well
Touch
Feel
Ordinary
Alloy
Feels
Loss
Lightness
Time
Happiness
Serves
Like
Money
Passes

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Man, like the generous vine, supported lives the strength he gains is from the embrace he gives.
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The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
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Genius creates, and taste preserves.
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Not to go back is somewhat to advance, and men must walk, at least, before they dance.
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If faith itself has different dresses worn, What wonder modes in wit should take their turn?
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O peace! how many wars were waged in thy name.
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When we are young, we are slavishly employed in procuring something whereby we may live comfortably when we grow old and when we are old, we perceive it is too late to live as we proposed.
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What riches give us let us then inquire: Meat, fire, and clothes. What more? Meat, clothes, and fire. Is this too little?
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A mighty maze! But not without a plan.
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Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
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In various talk th' instructive hours they past, Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last One speaks the glory of the British queen, And one describes a charming Indian screen A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes At every word a reputation dies.
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Give me again my hollow tree A crust of bread, and liberty!
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What will a child learn sooner than a song?
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Alas! the small discredit of a bribe Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe.
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Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul Reason's comparing balance rules the whole. Man, but for that no action could attend, And, but for this, were active to no end: Fix'd like a plant on his peculiar spot, To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot Or, meteor-like, flame lawless thro' the void, Destroying others, by himself destroy'd.
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Know then, unnumber'd Spirits round thee fly, The light Militia of the lower sky.
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