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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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A youth of frolic, an old age of cards.
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These riches are possess'd, but not enjoy'd!
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Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
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Say first, of god above or man below what can we reason but from what we know.
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Why has not Man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly. Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n.
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Content if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view, The learn'd reflect on what before they knew.
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If, presume not to God to scan The proper study of Mankind is Man. Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state, a being darkly wise, and rudely great.
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What so pure, which envious tongues will spare? Some wicked wits have libell'd all the fair, With matchless impudence they style a wife, The dear-bought curse, and lawful plague of life A bosom serpent, a domestic evil, A night invasion, and a mid-day devil Let not the wise these sland'rous words regard, But curse the bones of ev'ry living bard.
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What's fame? a fancy'd life in other's breath. A thing beyond us, even before our death.
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Hope springs eternal.
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To endeavor to work upon the vulgar with fine sense is like attempting to hew blocks with a razor.
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Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
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How loved, how honored once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot A heap of dust alone remains of thee 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
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By flatterers besieged And so obliging that he ne'er obliged.
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Vices and virtues are of a strange nature, for the more we have, the fewer we think we have.
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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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Let fortune do her worst, whatever she makes us lose, so long as she never makes us lose our honesty and our independence.
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Histories are more full of examples of the fidelity of dogs than of friends.
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Order is Heaven's first law and this confess, Some are and must be greater than the rest.
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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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