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Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend.

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
Lost
Gain
Statesmanship
Action
Broke
Statesman
Ends
Gains
Statesmen
Truth
Private
Title
Soul
Friendship
Honour
Promise
Titles
Friend
Sincere
Clear
Faithful

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Nor in the critic let the man be lost.
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By flatterers besieged And so obliging that he ne'er obliged.
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To dazzle let the vain design, To raise the thought and touch the heart, be thine!
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For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife.
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On life's vast ocean diversely we sail. Reasons the card, but passion the gale.
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There are some solitary wretches who seem to have left the rest of mankind, only, as Eve left Adam, to meet the devil in private.
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Man, like the generous vine, supported lives the strength he gains is from the embrace he gives.
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An atheist is but a mad, ridiculous derider of piety, but a hypocrite makes a sober jest of God and religion he finds it easier to be upon his knees than to rise to a good action.
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And binding nature fast in fate, Left free the human will.
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Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of fate, All but the page prescribed, their present state: From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Or who could suffer being here below?
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Where's the man who counsel can bestow, still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know.
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Chaos of thought and passion, all confused Still by himself abused or disabused Created half to rise, and half to fall Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled,- The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.
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The good must merit God's peculiar care But who but God can tell us who they are?
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The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read With loads of learned lumber in his head.
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Give me again my hollow tree A crust of bread, and liberty!
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I lose my patience, and I own it too, When works are censur'd, not as bad but new While if our Elders break all reason's laws, These fools demand not pardon but Applause.
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These riches are possess'd, but not enjoy'd!
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Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.
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A patriot is a fool in ev'ry age.
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Die of a rose in aromatic pain.
Alexander Pope