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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
Deathbed
Symptoms
Hundred
Dying
Good

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Trust not yourself, but your defects to know, make use of every friend and every foe.
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Women, as they are like riddles in being unintelligible, so generally resemble them in this, that they please us no longer once we know them.
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There is nothing that is meritorious but virtue and friendship.
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Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
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What then remains, but well our power to use, And keep good-humor still whate'er we lose? And trust me, dear, good-humor can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.
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Whatever is, is right.
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The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
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Who dare to love their country, and be poor.
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Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?
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Unblemish'd let me live or die unknown Oh, grant an honest fame, or grant me none!
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Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glittering thoughts struck out at ev'ry line Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
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The dull flat falsehood serves for policy, and in the cunning, truth's itself a lie.
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Did some more sober critics come abroad? If wrong, I smil'd if right, I kiss'd the rod.
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Leave not a foot of verse, a foot of stone, A Page, a Grave, that they can call their own But spread, my sons, your glory thin or thick, On passive paper, or on solid brick.
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Giving advice is many times only the privilege of saying a foolish thing one's self, under the pretense of hindering another from doing one.
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How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
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The approach of night The skies yet blushing with departing light, When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade, And the low sun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.
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Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.
Alexander Pope
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Chiefs who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer-days like grasshoppers rejoice - A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice.
Alexander Pope
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On cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.
Alexander Pope