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

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False happiness is like false money it passes for a time as well as the true, and serves some ordinary occasions but when it is brought to the touch, we find the lightness and alloy, and feel the loss.
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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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An honest man's the noblest work of God.
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See plastic Nature working to this end, The single atoms each to other tend, Attract, attracted to, the next in place Form'd and impell'd its neighbor to embrace.
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Honor and shame from no condition rise. Act well your part: there all the honor lies.
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Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, And now a bubble burst, and now a world.
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In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?
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No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings, Shall, list'ning, in mid-air suspend their wings.
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See Christians, Jews, one heavy sabbath keep, And all the western world believe and sleep.
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Genius creates, and taste preserves. Taste is the good sense of genius without taste, genius is only sublime folly.
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The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.
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What Tully said of war may be applied to disputing: It should be always so managed as to remember that the only true end of it is peace. But generally true disputants are like true sportsmen,--their whole delight is in the pursuit and the disputant no more cares for the truth than the sportsman for the hare.
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See! From the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings Short is his joy! He feels the fiery wound, Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.
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Act well your part, there all the honour lies.
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Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.
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On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.
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Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain Here earth and water seem to strive again, Not chaos-like together crushed and bruised, But, as the world, harmoniously confused: Where order in variety we see, And where, though all things differ, all agree.
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Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature's God.
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In various talk th' instructive hours they past, Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last One speaks the glory of the British queen, And one describes a charming Indian screen A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes At every word a reputation dies.
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Consult the genius of the place, that paints as you plant, and as you work.
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