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Chiefs who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer-days like grasshoppers rejoice - A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice.

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
Like
Wise
Fights
Days
Rejoice
Race
Engage
Age
Bloody
Fighting
Chiefs
Voice
Send
Bloodless
War
Narrative
Grasshoppers
Time
Summer
Feeble

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Woman's at best a contradiction still.
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In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fixed, 'tis fixed as in a frost.
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Leave not a foot of verse, a foot of stone, A Page, a Grave, that they can call their own But spread, my sons, your glory thin or thick, On passive paper, or on solid brick.
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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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And empty heads console with empty sound.
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chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd.
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I lose my patience, and I own it too, When works are censur'd, not as bad but new While if our Elders break all reason's laws, These fools demand not pardon but Applause.
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Superstition is the spleen of the soul.
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Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for a time, leave us the weaker ever after.
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Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? In living medals see her wars enroll'd, And vanquished realms supply recording gold?
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A brave man thinks no one his superior who does him an injury, for he has it then in his power to make himself superior to the other by forgiving it.
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No writing is good that does not tend to better mankind in some way or other.
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Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glittering thoughts struck out at ev'ry line Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
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Ah! why, ye Gods, should two and two make four?
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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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A mighty maze! But not without a plan.
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Grave authors say, and witty poets sing, That honest wedlock is a glorious thing.
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Ye gods, annihilate but space and time, And make two lovers happy.
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Then sculpture and her sister arts revived stones leaped to form, and rocks began to live.
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