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A wise physician, skill'd our wounds to heal, is more than armies to the public weal.

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
Wisdom
Skill
Science
Wounds
Heal
Medicine
Army
Weal
Skills
Armies
Wise
Physician
Public
Physicians

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Never elated when someone's oppressed, never dejected when another one's blessed.
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Some people are commended for a giddy kind of good-humor, which is as much a virtue as drunkenness.
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The bookful blockhead ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always list'ning to himself appears. All books he reads, and all he reads assails.
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Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, and fills up all the mighty void of sense.
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Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
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What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, Is virtue's prize.
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Conceit is to nature what paint is to beauty it is not only needless, but it impairs what it would improve.
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Love seldom haunts the breast where learning lies, And Venus sets ere Mercury can rise.
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So perish all who do the like again.
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Coffee which makes the politician wise, and see through all things with his half-shut eyes.
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There is a majesty in simplicity.
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Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?
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Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf, Not one will change his neighbor with himself.
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O happiness! our being's end and aim! Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate'er thy name: That something still which prompts the eternal sigh, For which we bear to live, or dare to die.
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Our business in the field of fight, Is not to question, but to prove our might.
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See plastic Nature working to this end, The single atoms each to other tend, Attract, attracted to, the next in place Form'd and impell'd its neighbor to embrace.
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You beat your Pate, and fancy Wit will come: Knock as you please, there's no body at home.
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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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But blind to former as to future fate, what mortal knows his pre-existent state?
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To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite, who never mentions hell to ears polite.
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