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On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.

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
Jew
Infidels
Kiss
Infidel
Cross
Sparkling
Crosses
Wore
Kissing
Breast
White
Adore
Might
Breasts
Jews

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Some have at first for wits, then poets passed, Turned critics next, and proved plain fools at last.
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Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
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You eat, in dreams, the custard of the day.
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The time shall come, when, free as seas or wind, Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind, Whole nations enter with each swelling tide, And seas but join the regions they divide Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold, And the new world launch forth to seek the old.
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The blest to-day is as completely so, As who began a thousand years ago.
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Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always To be Blest.
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Ah! why, ye Gods, should two and two make four?
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The ruling passion, be it what it will. The ruling passion conquers reason still.
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Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?
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Then sculpture and her sister arts revived stones leaped to form, and rocks began to live.
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A perfect judge will read each word of wit with the same spirit that its author writ.
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Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glittering thoughts struck out at ev'ry line Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
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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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Fine sense and exalted sense are not half so useful as common sense. There are forty men of wit for one man of sense and he that will carry nothing about him but gold, will be every day at a loss for want of readier change.
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When to mischief mortals bend their will, how soon they find it instruments of ill.
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Virtue may choose the high or low degree, 'Tis just alike to virtue, and to me Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king, She's still the same belov'd, contented thing.
Alexander Pope
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In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, And Hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound.
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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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Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine, Earth for whose use? Pride answers, 'Tis for mine For me kind nature wakes her genial power, Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower.
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When I die, I should be ashamed to leave enough to build me a monument if there were a wanting friend above ground. I would enjoy the pleasure of what I give by giving it alive and seeing another enjoy it.
Alexander Pope