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

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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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True self-love and social are the same.
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Education forms the common mind.
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O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize, And make my tongue victorious as her eyes.
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The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
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Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
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Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.
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As some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire While expletives their feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.
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Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain Here earth and water seem to strive again, Not chaos-like together crushed and bruised, But, as the world, harmoniously confused: Where order in variety we see, And where, though all things differ, all agree.
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Nor Fame I slight, nor her favors call.
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Honor and shame from no condition rise. Act well your part: there all the honor lies.
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While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.
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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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Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine, Earth for whose use? Pride answers, 'Tis for mine For me kind nature wakes her genial power, Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower.
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In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fixed, 'tis fixed as in a frost.
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On wings of wind came flying all abroad.
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See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head! Philosophy, that lean'd on Heav'n before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense! See Mystery to Mathematics fly!
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How vast a memory has Love!
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A family is but too often a commonwealth of malignants.
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Satire or sense, alas! Can Sporus feel? Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
Alexander Pope