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We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow. Our wiser sons, no doubt will think us so.

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
Funny
Fools
Father
Son
Think
Fool
Thinking
Humor
Grow
Wise
Sons
Doubt
Wiser
Grows
Fathers

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On life's vast ocean diversely we sail, Reason the card, but passion is the gale Nor God alone in the still calm we find, He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind.
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Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend.
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Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old age away . . . . To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
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Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.
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From the moment one sets up for an author, one must be treated as ceremoniously, that is as unfaithfully, as a king's favorite or a king.
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Eve left Adam, to meet the Devil in private.
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A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits.
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Who builds a church to God and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name.
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Death, only death, can break the lasting chain And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain
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To Him no high, no low, no great, no small He fills, He bounds, connects and equals all!
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Whenever I find a great deal of gratitude in a poor man, I take it for granted there would be as much generosity if he were a rich man.
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Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain Here earth and water seem to strive again, Not chaos-like together crushed and bruised, But, as the world, harmoniously confused: Where order in variety we see, And where, though all things differ, all agree.
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Who know but He, whose hand the lightning forms, Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms, Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind.
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Pleas'd look forward, pleas'd to look behind,And count each birthday with a grateful mind.
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Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.
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A little learning is a dangerous thing Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.
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Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly, When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves, When thro' the clouds he drives the trembling doves.
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A fly, a grape-stone, or a hair can kill.
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See! From the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings Short is his joy! He feels the fiery wound, Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.
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A family is but too often a commonwealth of malignants.
Alexander Pope