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Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.

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
Running
Tilt
Discreet
Satire
Weapon
Wit
Weapons
Meet

More quotes by Alexander Pope

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In vain sedate reflections we would make When half our knowledge we must snatch, not take.
Alexander Pope
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Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
Alexander Pope
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I as little fear that God will damn a man that has charity, as I hope that the priests can save one who has not.
Alexander Pope
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One self-approving hour whole years outweighs.
Alexander Pope
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At ev'ry word a reputation dies.
Alexander Pope
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Learning is like mercury, one of the most powerful and excellent things in the world in skillful hands in unskillful, the most mischievous.
Alexander Pope
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No writing is good that does not tend to better mankind in some way or other.
Alexander Pope
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chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd.
Alexander Pope
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There never was any party, faction, sect, or cabal whatsoever, in which the most ignorant were not the most violent for a bee is not a busier animal than a blockhead.
Alexander Pope
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The life of a wit is a warfare upon earth.
Alexander Pope
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The most positive men are the most credulous, since they most believe themselves, and advise most with their falsest flatterer and worst enemy--their own self-love.
Alexander Pope
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Nothing can be more shocking and horrid than one of our kitchens sprinkled with blood, and abounding with the cries of expiring victims or with the limbs of dead animals scattered or hung up here and there.
Alexander Pope
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The man that loves and laughs must sure do well.
Alexander Pope
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Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, Lie in three words,-health, peace, and competence.
Alexander Pope
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Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, A being darkly wise and rudely great... He hangs between in doubt to act or rest In doubt to deem himself a god, or beast In doubt his mind or body to prefer Born to die, and reasoning but to err.
Alexander Pope
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And little eagles wave their wings in gold.
Alexander Pope
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What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Alexander Pope
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In various talk th' instructive hours they past, Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last One speaks the glory of the British queen, And one describes a charming Indian screen A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes At every word a reputation dies.
Alexander Pope
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Poets heap virtues, painters gems, at will, And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill.
Alexander Pope
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As with narrow-necked bottles the less they have in them, the more noise they make in pouring out.
Alexander Pope