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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.

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
Ground
Brake
Spring
Triumphant
Short
Fiery
Whirring
Joy
Springs
Pheasants
Blood
Wound
Exulting
Feels
Wounds
Flutters
Wings
Mounts
Beats
Panting

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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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One self-approving hour whole years outweighs.
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Truth needs not flowers of speech.
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Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise.
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Placed on this isthmus of a middle state.
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Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style, Amaze th' unlearn'd and make the learned smile.
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With too much quickness ever to be taught With too much thinking to have common thought.
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Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul Reason's comparing balance rules the whole. Man, but for that no action could attend, And, but for this, were active to no end: Fix'd like a plant on his peculiar spot, To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot Or, meteor-like, flame lawless thro' the void, Destroying others, by himself destroy'd.
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But just disease to luxury succeeds, And ev'ry death its own avenger breeds.
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By flatterers besieged And so obliging that he ne'er obliged.
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Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell, For sober, studious days!
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Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, Lie in three words,-health, peace, and competence.
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Ladies, like variegated tulips, show 'Tis to their changes half their charms we owe.
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Great oaks grow from little acorns. He has a green thumb. He has green fingers. He's sowing his wild oats. Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.
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No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n, Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n But such plain roofs as Piety could raise, And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
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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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A man of business may talk of philosophy a man who has none may practice it.
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