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Others import yet nobler arts from France, Teach kings to fiddle, and make senates dance.

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
France
Dancing
Kings
Import
Dance
Fiddle
Teach
Nobler
Art
Imports
Others
Senate
Make
Arts

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Never was it given to mortal man - To lie so boldly as we women can.
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I have more zeal than wit.
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Chaos of thought and passion, all confused Still by himself abused or disabused Created half to rise, and half to fall Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled,- The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.
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While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.
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Talk what you will of taste, my friend, you'll find two of a face as soon as of a mind.
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Ladies, like variegated tulips, show 'Tis to their changes half their charms we owe.
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Cavil you may, but never criticise.
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Condition, circumstance, is not the thing Bliss is the same in subject or in king.
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Is not absence death to those who love?
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The cabinets of the sick and the closets of the dead have been ransacked to publish private letters and divulge to all mankind the most secret sentiments of friendship.
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At ev'ry word a reputation dies.
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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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The meeting points the sacred hair dissever From the fair head, forever, and forever! Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies.
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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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True wit is nature to advantage dressed What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed.
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A youth of frolic, an old age of cards.
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Unblemish'd let me live or die unknown Oh, grant an honest fame, or grant me none!
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Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn, And liquid amber drop from every thorn.
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Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, The clamtrous lapwings feel the leaden death Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare They fall, and leave their little lives in air.
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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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