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O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize, And make my tongue victorious as her eyes.

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
Gains
Eyes
Eye
Make
Sylvia
Love
Victorious
Life
Prize
Gain
Tongue

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All seems infected that th' infected spy, As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye.
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Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven.
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The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.
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And more than echoes talk along the walls.
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Gentle dullness ever loves a joke.
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Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.
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True disputants are like true sportsmen: their whole delight is in the pursuit.
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Great oaks grow from little acorns. He has a green thumb. He has green fingers. He's sowing his wild oats. Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.
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At length corruption, like a general flood (So long by watchful ministers withstood), Shall deluge all and avarice, creeping on, Spread like a low-born mist, and blot the sun.
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So man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
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He who tells a lie is not sensible of how great a task he undertakes for he must be forced to invent twenty more to maintain that one.
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The ruling passion, be it what it will. The ruling passion conquers reason still.
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Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, Our greatest evil, or our greatest good.
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The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
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What then remains, but well our power to use, And keep good-humor still whate'er we lose? And trust me, dear, good-humor can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.
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On wrongs swift vengeance waits.
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Why did I write? What sin to me unknown dipped me in ink, my parents , or my own?
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Oft in dreams invention we bestow to change a flounce or add a furbelow.
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Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow The rest is all but leather and prunello.
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There still remains to mortify a wit The many-headed monster of the pit.
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