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Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.

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
Fool
Nature
School
Maze
Made
Mazes
Bewildered
Fools
Schools
Meant

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Every woman is at heart a rake.
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But thousands die without or this or that, Die, and endow a college or a cat.
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Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend, With whom my muse began, with who shall end.
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Whether with Reason, or with Instinct blest, Know, all enjoy that pow'r which suits them best.
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How happy is the blameless vestal's lot? The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
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Curse on all laws but those which love has made.
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Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, The clamtrous lapwings feel the leaden death Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare They fall, and leave their little lives in air.
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In pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies All quit their sphere and rush into the skies. Pride still is aiming at the bless'd abodes, Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
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Monuments, like men, submit to fate.
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Virtuous and vicious every man must be, few in the extreme, but all in the degree.
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For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife.
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What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
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Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heav'n.
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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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Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are fluttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack And leave your friends and go. O never fear, lads, naught's to dread, Look not to left nor right: In all the endless road you tread There's nothing but the night.
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If faith itself has different dresses worn, What wonder modes in wit should take their turn?
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To endeavor to work upon the vulgar with fine sense is like attempting to hew blocks with a razor.
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Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
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Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf, Not one will change his neighbor with himself.
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Wit and judgment often are at strife.
Alexander Pope