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In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?

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
Dew
Bees
Healing
Nice
Sense
Extracts
True
Nous
Subtly
Herbs

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While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.
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Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies, And catch the manners living as they rise Laugh where we must, be candid where we can, But vindicate the ways of God to man.
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Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven.
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Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
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Where grows?--where grows it not? If vain our toil, We ought to blame the culture, not the soil.
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Sickness is a sort of early old age it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state.
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See the wild Waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad Sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very Tombs now vanish'd like their dead!
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Virtue alone is happiness below.
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'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, But the joint force and full result of all.
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A perfect Judge will read each work of Wit With the same spirit that its author writ: Survey the Whole, nor seek slight faults to find Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind.
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The doubtful beam long nods from side to side.
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Strength of mind is exercise, not rest.
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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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Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend, With whom my muse began, with who shall end.
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Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style, Amaze th' unlearn'd and make the learned smile.
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To the Elysian shades dismiss my soul, where no carnation fades.
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A family is but too often a commonwealth of malignants.
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The way of the Creative works through change and transformation, so that each thing receives its true nature and destiny and comes into permanent accord with the Great Harmony: this is what furthers and what perseveres.
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Intestine war no more our passions wage, And giddy factions bear away their rage.
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Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, Our greatest evil, or our greatest good.
Alexander Pope