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Beauty draws us with a single hair.

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
Tresses
Draws
Hair
Single
Beauty

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He who serves his brother best gets nearer God than all the rest.
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Love the offender, yet detest the offense.
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An excuse is worse and more terrible than a lie for an excuse is a lie guarded.
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Did some more sober critics come abroad? If wrong, I smil'd if right, I kiss'd the rod.
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Curse on all laws but those which love has made.
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There is nothing that is meritorious but virtue and friendship.
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Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare And beauty draws us with a single hair.
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Interspersed in lawn and opening glades, Thin trees arise that shun each others' shades.
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Time conquers all, and we must time obey.
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Gentle dullness ever loves a joke.
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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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Of darkness visible so much be lent, as half to show, half veil, the deep intent.
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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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While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.
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A king may be a tool, a thing of straw but if he serves to frighten our enemies, and secure our property, it is well enough a scarecrow is a thing of straw, but it protects the corn.
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First follow Nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same: Unerring nature, still divinely bright, One clear, unchanged, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of art.
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To swear is neither brave, polite, nor wise.
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Of all affliction taught a lover yet, 'Tis true the hardest science to forget.
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Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O grave! where is thy victory? O death! where is thy sting?
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Why did I write? whose sin to me unknown Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
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