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Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.

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
Justice
Crops
Lasts
Pleased
Last
Shed
Hands
Cooking
Raised
Blood
Food
Licks
Hand
Flowery

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Get place and wealth, if possible with grace if not, by any means get wealth and place.
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A pear-tree planted nigh: 'Twas charg'd with fruit that made a goodly show, And hung with dangling pears was every bough.
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Give me again my hollow tree A crust of bread, and liberty!
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These riches are possess'd, but not enjoy'd!
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chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd.
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Still when the lust of tyrant power succeeds, some Athens perishes, or some Tully bleeds.
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And hence one master-passion in the breast, Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest.
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Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
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We ought, in humanity, no more to despise a man for the misfortunes of the mind than for those of the body, when they are such as he cannot help were this thoroughly considered we should no more laugh at a man for having his brains cracked than for having his head broke.
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The dull flat falsehood serves for policy, and in the cunning, truth's itself a lie.
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All Nature is but art, unknown to thee All chance, direction, which thou canst not see All discord, harmony not understood All partial evil, universal good.
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For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best, Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.
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But honest instinct comes a volunteer Sure never to o'er-shoot, but just to hit, While still too wide or short in human wit.
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As with narrow-necked bottles the less they have in them, the more noise they make in pouring out.
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Oh, blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven.
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In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend.
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Count all th' advantage prosperous Vice attains, 'Tis but what Virtue flies from and disdains: And grant the bad what happiness they would, One they must want--which is, to pass for good.
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Order is heaven's first law.
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In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?
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Fly, dotard, fly! With thy wise dreams and fables of the sky.
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