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The vanity of human life is like a river, constantly passing away, and yet constantly coming on.

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
Life
Vanity
Like
Passing
Rivers
Constantly
Coming
Away
Human
Passings
Humans
River

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No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n, Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n But such plain roofs as Piety could raise, And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
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How Instinct varies in the grov'ling swine.
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What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, Is virtue's prize.
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Vast chain of being! which from God began, Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, No glass can reach, from infinite to Thee, From Thee to nothing.
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Cursed be the verse, how well so e'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe.
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What nature wants, commodious gold bestows 'Tis thus we cut the bread another sows.
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Ye flowers that drop, forsaken by the spring, Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing, Ye trees that fade, when Autumn heats remove, Say, is not absence death to those who love?
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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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The villain's censure is extorted praise.
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Every man has just as much vanity as he wants understanding.
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Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf, Not one will change his neighbor with himself.
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See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head! Philosophy, that lean'd on Heav'n before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense! See Mystery to Mathematics fly!
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Our plenteous streams a various race supply, The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye, The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd, The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold, Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, And pikes, the tyrants of the wat'ry plains.
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Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.
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Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land? All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
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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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Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, and fills up all the mighty void of sense.
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What Conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do This teach me more than Hell to shun, That more than Heav'n pursue.
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The young disease, that must subdue at length, Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength.
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Lo! The poor Indian, whose untutored mind sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind.
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