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Be silent always when you doubt your sense.

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
Silent
Silence
Doubt
Sense
Always

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Avoid Extremes and shun the fault of such Who still are pleas'd too little or too much.
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Art still followed where Rome's eagles flew.
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Here thou, great Anna! Whom three realms obey, / Dost sometimes counsel take—and sometimes tea.
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How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, and love the offender, yet detest the offence?
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In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, And Hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound.
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A God without dominion, providence, and final causes, is nothing else but fate and nature.
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Fools admire, but men of sense approve.
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All Nature is but art, unknown to thee All chance, direction, which thou canst not see All discord, harmony not understood All partial evil, universal good.
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Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
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Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense weigh thy opinion against Providence.
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See! From the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings Short is his joy! He feels the fiery wound, Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.
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Tis from high Life high Characters are drawn A Saint in Crape is twice a Saint in Lawn: A Judge is just, a Chanc'llor juster still A Gownman learn'd a Bishop what you will Wise if a minister but if a King, More wise, more learn'd, more just, more ev'rything.
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In a sadly pleasing strain, let the warbling lute complain.
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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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See how the World its Veterans rewards! A Youth of Frolics, an old Age of Cards Fair to no purpose, artful to no end, Young without Lovers, old without a Friend A Fop their Passion, but their Prize a Sot Alive ridiculous, and dead forgot.
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Is it, in Heav'n, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender or too firm a heart, To act a lover's or a Roman's part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
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Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath.
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Whether the darken'd room to muse invite, Or whiten'd wall provoke the skew'r to write In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint, Like Lee or Budgel I will rhyme and print.
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Praise undeserved, is satire in disguise.
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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.
Alexander Pope