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A brave man thinks no one his superior who does him an injury, for he has it then in his power to make himself superior to the other by forgiving it.

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
Power
Bravery
Doe
Superior
Make
Injury
Men
Superiors
Thinking
Forgiving
Thinks
Brave
Courage

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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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Tis strange the miser should his cares employTo gain those riches he can ne'er enjoyIs it less strange the prodigal should wasteHis wealth to purchase what he ne'er can taste?
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How Instinct varies in the grov'ling swine.
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A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits.
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Never elated when someone's oppressed, never dejected when another one's blessed.
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Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.
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That each from other differs, first confess next that he varies from himself no less.
Alexander Pope
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Art still followed where Rome's eagles flew.
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The Dying Christian to His Soul (1712) -Vital spark of heav'nly flame! Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Stanza 1.
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See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head! Philosophy, that lean'd on Heav'n before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense! See Mystery to Mathematics fly!
Alexander Pope
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On cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.
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The mouse that always trusts to one poor hole Can never be a mouse of any soul.
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To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each Seene, and be what they behold: For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage.
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What is it to be wise? 'Tis but to know how little can be known, To see all others' faults, and feel our own.
Alexander Pope
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Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise My footstool earth, my canopy the skies.
Alexander Pope
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A man who admires a fine woman, has yet not more reason to wish himself her husband, than one who admired the Hesperian fruit, would have had to wish himself the dragon that kept it.
Alexander Pope
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To what base ends, and by what abject ways, Are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise!
Alexander Pope
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Every woman is at heart a rake.
Alexander Pope
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Pleasures are ever in our hands or eyes And when in act they cease, in prospect rise.
Alexander Pope
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Placed on this isthmus of a middle state.
Alexander Pope