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Tis true, 'tis certain man, though dead, retains Part of himself the immortal mind remains.

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
True
Part
Retains
Certain
Immortal
Mind
Remains
Men
Dead
Philosophy
Though
Death

More quotes by Alexander Pope

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If faith itself has different dresses worn, What wonder modes in wit should take their turn?
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Be silent always when you doubt your sense.
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Sole judge of Truth, in endless Error hurled: / The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!
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It is observable that the ladies frequent tragedies more than comedies the reason may be, that in tragedy their sex is deified and adored, in comedy exposed and ridiculed.
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Who shall decide when doctors disagree, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?
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Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.
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Love seldom haunts the breast where learning lies, And Venus sets ere Mercury can rise.
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And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances and the public show.
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But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.
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No craving void left aching in the soul.
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The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.
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Heaven breathes thro' ev'ry member of the whole One common blessing, as one common soul.
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With the mistake your life goes in reverse. Now you can see exactly what you did Wrong yesterday and wrong the day before And each mistake leads back to something worse.
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Like following life through creatures you dissect, You lose it in the moment you detect.
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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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Who pants for glory, finds but short repose A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.
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But Satan now is wiser than of yore, and tempts by making rich, not making poor.
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Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, content to dwell in decencies for ever.
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Most authors steal their works, or buy.
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But touch me, and no minister so sore. Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme, Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, And the sad burthen of some merry song.
Alexander Pope