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Here am I, dying of a hundred good symptoms.

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
Good
Deathbed
Symptoms
Hundred
Dying

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The scripture in times of disputes is like an open town in times of war, which serves in differently the occasions of both parties.
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Nothing is more certain than much of the force as well as grace, of arguments or instructions depends their conciseness.
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True self-love and social are the same.
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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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Lo! The poor Indian, whose untutored mind sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind.
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O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize, And make my tongue victorious as her eyes.
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A gen'rous heart repairs a sland'rous tongue.
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Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old.
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Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall And universal darkness buries all.
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Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
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Then marble, soften'd into life, grew warm.
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Chaos of thought and passion, all confused Still by himself abused or disabused Created half to rise, and half to fall Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled,- The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.
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So perish all who do the like again.
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In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend.
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The season when to come, and when to go, to sing, or cease to sing, we never know.
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How loved, how honored once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot A heap of dust alone remains of thee 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
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Interspersed in lawn and opening glades, Thin trees arise that shun each others' shades.
Alexander Pope
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Our plenteous streams a various race supply, The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye, The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd, The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold, Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, And pikes, the tyrants of the wat'ry plains.
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I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
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All looks yellow to a jaundiced eye.
Alexander Pope