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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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I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
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True politeness consists in being easy one's self, and in making every one about one as easy as one can.
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What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
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Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? In living medals see her wars enroll'd, And vanquished realms supply recording gold?
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We may see the small value God has for riches, by the people he gives them to.
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Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend, With whom my muse began, with who shall end.
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Tis use alone that sanctifies expense And splendor borrow all her rays from sense.
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But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse Sharp Boreas blows, and nature feels decay, Time conquers all, and we must time obey.
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These riches are possess'd, but not enjoy'd!
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Fools admire, but men of sense approve.
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To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite, who never mentions hell to ears polite.
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Homer excels all the inventors of other arts in this: that he has swallowed up the honor of those who succeeded him.
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Fondly we think we honor merit then, when we but praise ourselves in other men.
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Nor in the critic let the man be lost.
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