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But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat, The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat, To closer shades the panting flocks remove Ye gods! And is there no relief for love?

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
Shade
Murmuring
Closer
Shun
Remove
Shades
Relief
Flocks
Heat
Shepherds
Gods
Herds
Summer
Brooks
Noonday
Love
Retreat
Panting

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Be thou the first true merit to befriend, his praise is lost who stays till all commend.
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Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools and pageant of a day So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow For others' good, or melt at others' woe.
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The difference is as great between The optics seeing as the objects seen. All manners take a tincture from our own Or come discolor'd through out passions shown Or fancy's beam enlarges, multiplies, Contracts, inverts, and gives ten thousand dyes.
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Tis true, 'tis certain man, though dead, retains Part of himself the immortal mind remains.
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Placed on this isthmus of a middle state.
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Thus God and nature linked the gen'ral frame, And bade self-love and social be the same.
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Nature and nature's laws lay hid in the night. God said, Let Newton be! and all was light!
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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.
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Pride is still aiming at the best houses: Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell aspiring to be angels men rebel.
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A generous friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.
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Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.
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Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn, And liquid amber drop from every thorn.
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Men, some to business, some to pleasure take But every woman is at heart a rake.
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A perfect judge will read each word of wit with the same spirit that its author writ.
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But just disease to luxury succeeds, And ev'ry death its own avenger breeds.
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I find myself hoping a total end of all the unhappy divisions of mankind by party-spirit, which at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.
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Of little use, the man you may suppose, Who says in verse what others say in prose Yet let me show a poet's of some weight, And (though no soldier) useful to the state, What will a child learn sooner than a song? What better teach a foreigner the tongue? What's long or short, each accent where to place And speak in public with some sort of grace?
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All looks yellow to the jaundiced eye. [and therefore the solution is to fix the jaundiced eye.]
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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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A perfect woman's but a softer man.
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