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Conceit is to nature what paint is to beauty it is not only needless, but it impairs what it would improve.

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
Would
Needless
Conceited
Conceit
Improve
Improvement
Paint
Beauty
Nature
Impairs

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Many men have been capable of doing a wise thing, more a cunning thing, but very few a generous thing.
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Talk what you will of taste, my friend, you'll find two of a face as soon as of a mind.
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Every professional was once an amateur.
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But see how oft ambition's aims are cross'd, and chiefs contend 'til all the prize is lost!
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Calm, thinking villains, whom no faith could fix, Of crooked counsels and dark politics.
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The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.
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Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
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Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.
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For what I have publish'd, I can only hope to be pardon'd but for what I have burned, I deserve to be prais'd.
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Whether the darken'd room to muse invite, Or whiten'd wall provoke the skew'r to write In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint, Like Lee or Budgel I will rhyme and print.
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Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old.
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Who dare to love their country, and be poor.
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He knows to live who keeps the middle state, and neither leans on this side nor on that.
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Nor Fame I slight, nor her favors call.
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Love the offender, yet detest the offense.
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By flatterers besieged And so obliging that he ne'er obliged.
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A long, exact, and serious comedy In every scene some moral let it teach, And, if it can, at once both please and preach.
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Praise undeserved, is satire in disguise.
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To happy convents, bosomed deep in vines, Where slumber abbots, purple as their wines.
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Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of fate, All but the page prescribed, their present state: From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Or who could suffer being here below?
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