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To happy convents, bosomed deep in vines, Where slumber abbots, purple as their wines.

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
Happy
Wines
Slumber
Vines
Purple
Wine
Deep

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The same ambition can destroy or save, and make a patriot as it makes a knave.
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All nature is but art unknown to thee.
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But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.
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Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven.
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As some to Church repair, not for the doctrine, but the music there.
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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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Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.
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Who shall decide when doctors disagree, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?
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Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? In living medals see her wars enroll'd, And vanquished realms supply recording gold?
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Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise.
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Sometimes virtue starves while vice is fed.
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Some positive persisting fops we know, Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so But you with pleasure own your errors past, And make each day a critique on the last.
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Who dies in youth and vigour, dies the best.
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And empty heads console with empty sound.
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Consult the Genius of the Place in all.
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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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Tis from high Life high Characters are drawn A Saint in Crape is twice a Saint in Lawn: A Judge is just, a Chanc'llor juster still A Gownman learn'd a Bishop what you will Wise if a minister but if a King, More wise, more learn'd, more just, more ev'rything.
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I am satisfied to trifle away my time, rather than let it stick by me.
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Interspersed in lawn and opening glades, Thin trees arise that shun each others' shades.
Alexander Pope
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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.
Alexander Pope