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

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It is very natural for a young friend and a young lover to think the persons they love have nothing to do but to please them.
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Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O grave! where is thy victory? O death! where is thy sting?
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True wit is nature to advantage dressed What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed.
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A little learning is a dangerous thing.
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There is nothing that is meritorious but virtue and friendship.
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Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, of straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there.
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Tis use alone that sanctifies expense And splendor borrow all her rays from sense.
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Music the fiercest grief can charm, And fate's severest rage disarm. Music can soften pain to ease, And make despair and madness please Our joys below it can improve, And antedate the bliss above.
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Vice is a monster of so frightful mien As to be hated needs but to be seen Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.
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Sure of their qualities and demanding praise, more go to ruined fortunes than are raised.
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The difference is too nice - Where ends the virtue or begins the vice.
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Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust.
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There goes a saying, and 'twas shrewdly said, ''Old fish at table, but young flesh in bed.
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Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land? All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
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The light of Heaven restore Give me to see, and Ajax asks no more.
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A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.
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Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?
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She went from opera, park, assembly, play, To morning walks, and prayers three hours a day. To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, To muse, and spill her solitary tea, Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon.
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A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead.
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Do you find yourself making excuses when you do not perform? Shed the excuses and face reality. Excuses are the loser's way out. They will mar your credibility and stunt your personal growth.
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