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Did some more sober critics come abroad? If wrong, I smil'd if right, I kiss'd the rod.

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
Wrong
Come
Right
Abroad
Sober
Kiss
Kissing
Critics
Criticism

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With too much quickness ever to be taught With too much thinking to have common thought.
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Here thou, great Anna! Whom three realms obey, / Dost sometimes counsel take—and sometimes tea.
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Only music has the ability to take you to the edge of reality and allow you to peek in for a moment.
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In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?
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Whate'er the talents, or howe'er designed, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind.
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And die of nothing but a rage to live.
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Offend her, and she knows not to forgive Oblige her, and she'll hate you while you live.
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Of fight or fly, This choice is left ye, to resist or die.
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The pure and noble, the graceful and dignified, simplicity of language is nowhere in such perfection as in the Scriptures and Homer. The whole book of Job, with regard both to sublimity of thought and morality, exceeds, beyond all comparison, the most noble parts of Homer.
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Every professional was once an amateur.
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Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss.
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Ladies, like variegated tulips, show 'Tis to their changes half their charms we owe.
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There is a certain majesty in simplicity which is far above all the quaintness of wit.
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Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
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But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse Sharp Boreas blows, and nature feels decay, Time conquers all, and we must time obey.
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I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
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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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To be angry is to revenge the faults of others on ourselves.
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Unthought-of Frailties cheat us in the Wise.
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Dear, damned, distracting town, farewell! Thy fools no more I'll tease: This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, sleep at ease!
Alexander Pope