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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.

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
Men
Comprehend
Awe
Plain
Mite
Vision
Inspect
Seeing
Heav
Eye
Optics
Use
Microscopic
Reason
Finer

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Unthought-of Frailties cheat us in the Wise.
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Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.
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For forms of government, let fools contest Whate'er is best administered, is best.
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The hog that ploughs not, not obeys thy call, Lives on the labours of this lord of all.
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Who dare to love their country, and be poor.
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For what I have publish'd, I can only hope to be pardon'd but for what I have burned, I deserve to be prais'd.
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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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Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glittering thoughts struck out at ev'ry line Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
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When two people compliment each other with the choice of anything, each of them generally gets that which he likes least.
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Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.
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Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, content to dwell in decencies for ever.
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To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart
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Never find fault with the absent.
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Presumptuous Man! the reason wouldst thou find,Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind?First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less!Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are madeTaller or stronger than the weeds they shade?Or ask of yonder argent fields above,Why Jove's Satellites are less than Jove?
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No, make me mistress to the man I love If there be yet another name more free More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
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A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead.
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So vast is art, so narrow human wit.
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Oft in dreams invention we bestow to change a flounce or add a furbelow.
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I lose my patience, and I own it too, When works are censur'd, not as bad but new While if our Elders break all reason's laws, These fools demand not pardon but Applause.
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The people's voice is odd, It is, and it is not, the voice of God.
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