Quote

Hope humbly then with trembling pinions soar Wait the great teacher, Death, and God adore What future bliss He gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.

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
Hope
Bliss
Death
Thee
Giving
Wait
Great
Blessing
Pinions
Gives
Humbly
Teacher
Trembling
Waiting
Soar
Future
Adore

More quotes by Alexander Pope

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Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.
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The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.
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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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To swear is neither brave, polite, nor wise.
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Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.
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Some old men, continually praise the time of their youth. In fact, you would almost think that there were no fools in their days, but unluckily they themselves are left as an example.
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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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Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain awake but one, and in, what myriads rise!
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How index-learning turns no student pale, Yet holds the eel of science by the tail!
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Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heav'n.
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Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.
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Dear, damned, distracting town, farewell! Thy fools no more I'll tease: This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, sleep at ease!
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Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.
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How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
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But to the world no bugbear is so great, As want of figure and a small estate.
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And little eagles wave their wings in gold.
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O peace! how many wars were waged in thy name.
Alexander Pope
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Where grows?--where grows it not? If vain our toil, We ought to blame the culture, not the soil.
Alexander Pope
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Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend, With whom my muse began, with who shall end.
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Monuments, like men, submit to fate.
Alexander Pope