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

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No writing is good that does not tend to better mankind in some way or other.
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The bookful blockhead ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always list'ning to himself appears. All books he reads, and all he reads assails.
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Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne, They rise, they break, and to that sea return.
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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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Jarring interests of themselves create the according music of a well-mixed state.
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Two women seldom grow intimate but at the expense of a third person they make friendships as kings of old made leagues, who sacrificed some poor animal betwixt them, and commenced strict allies so the ladies, after they have pulled some character to pieces, are from henceforth inviolable friends.
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Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
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I have more zeal than wit.
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Our plenteous streams a various race supply, The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye, The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd, The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold, Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, And pikes, the tyrants of the wat'ry plains.
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And soften'd sounds along the waters die: Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play.
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How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, and love the offender, yet detest the offence?
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Our judgments, like our watches, none go just alike, yet each believes his own
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Nay, fly to altars there they'll talk you dead For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
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I begin where most people end, with a full conviction of the emptiness of all sorts of ambition, and the unsatisfactory nature of all human pleasures.
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Trade it may help, society extend, But lures the Pirate, ant corrupts the friend: It raises armies in a nation's aid, But bribes a senate, and the land's betray'd.
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A generous friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.
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O let us still the secret joy partake, To follow virtue even for virtue's sake.
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On wings of wind came flying all abroad.
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And hence one master-passion in the breast, Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest.
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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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