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How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, and love the offender, yet detest the offence?

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
Keep
Offenders
Love
Detest
Offence
Sin
Lose
Loses
Shall
Sense
Offender

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But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain. The wond'ring forests soon should dance again The moving mountains hear the powerful call. And headlong streams hand listening in their fall!
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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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A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!
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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.
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There still remains to mortify a wit The many-headed monster of the pit.
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At every trifle take offense, that always shows great pride or little sense.
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Why did I write? whose sin to me unknown Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
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When to the Permanent is sacrificed the Mutable, the prize is thine: the drop returneth whence it came. The Open Path leads to the changeless change - Non-Being, the glorious state of Absoluteness, the Bliss past human thought.
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Fine sense and exalted sense are not half so useful as common sense. There are forty men of wit for one man of sense and he that will carry nothing about him but gold, will be every day at a loss for want of readier change.
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He who serves his brother best gets nearer God than all the rest.
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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.
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They dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake.
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Tis strange the miser should his cares employTo gain those riches he can ne'er enjoyIs it less strange the prodigal should wasteHis wealth to purchase what he ne'er can taste?
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True friendship's laws are by this rule express'd, Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.
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Some praise at morning what they blame at night, but always think the last opinion right.
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Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear.
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Intestine war no more our passions wage, And giddy factions bear away their rage.
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Fear not the anger of the wise to raise Those best can bear reproof who merit praise.
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Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?
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Where's the man who counsel can bestow, still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know.
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