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

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Sure of their qualities and demanding praise, more go to ruined fortunes than are raised.
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A generous friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.
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Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf, Not one will change his neighbor with himself.
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Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind!
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How vast a memory has Love!
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O happiness! our being's end and aim! Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate'er thy name: That something still which prompts the eternal sigh, For which we bear to live, or dare to die.
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It is not so much the being exempt from faults, as having overcome them, that is an advantage to us.
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Nothing can be more shocking and horrid than one of our kitchens sprinkled with blood, and abounding with the cries of expiring victims or with the limbs of dead animals scattered or hung up here and there.
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What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things.
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But blind to former as to future fate, what mortal knows his pre-existent state?
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Passions are the gales of life.
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The blest to-day is as completely so, As who began a thousand years ago.
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When two people compliment each other with the choice of anything, each of them generally gets that which he likes least.
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The lot of man - to suffer and to die.
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Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine, Earth for whose use? Pride answers, 'Tis for mine For me kind nature wakes her genial power, Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower.
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As with narrow-necked bottles the less they have in them, the more noise they make in pouring out.
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On wrongs swift vengeance waits.
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Great oaks grow from little acorns. He has a green thumb. He has green fingers. He's sowing his wild oats. Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.
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Every professional was once an amateur.
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Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath.
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