Quote

Who know but He, whose hand the lightning forms, Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms, Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind.

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
Whose
Storms
Hand
Fierce
Lightning
Hands
Storm
Form
Forms
Mind
Wings
Heaves
Ambition
Pours
Ocean
Caesar

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No, make me mistress to the man I love If there be yet another name more free More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
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Wretches hang that jurymen may dine.
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The good must merit God's peculiar care But who but God can tell us who they are?
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Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.
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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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Virtuous and vicious every man must be, few in the extreme, but all in the degree.
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A little learning is a dangerous thing.
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Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue
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If a man's character is to be abused there's nobody like a relative to do the business.
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To what base ends, and by what abject ways, Are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise!
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Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise My footstool earth, my canopy the skies.
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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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Coffee which makes the politician wise, and see through all things with his half-shut eyes.
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Oh, blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven.
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Heaven forming each on other to depend, A master, or a servant, or a friend, Bids each on other for assistance call, Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all.
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Some praise at morning what they blame at night, but always think the last opinion right.
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What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things.
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Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast But shall the dignity of vice be lost?
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Man never thinks himself happy, but when he enjoys those things which others want or desire.
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So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art By doctor's bills to play the doctor's part, Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
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