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Say, will the falcon, stooping from above, Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove? Admires the jay the insect's gilded wings? Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings?

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
Spare
Hawk
Spares
Gilded
Insects
Insect
Admire
Varying
Wings
Hawks
Stooping
Sings
Plumage
Dove
Admires
Hears
Falcon

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Charm strikes the sight, but merit wins the soul.
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Some people are commended for a giddy kind of good-humor, which is as much a virtue as drunkenness.
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Education forms the common mind. Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined.
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Teach me to feel another's woe, to hide the fault I see, that mercy I to others show, that mercy show to me.
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The zeal of fools offends at any time.
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Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.
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No creature smarts so little as a fool.
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Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies.
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Content if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view, The learn'd reflect on what before they knew.
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Order is Heaven's first law and this confessed, some are, and must be, greater than the rest, more rich, more wise but who infers from hence that such are happier, shocks all common sense. Condition, circumstance, is not the thing bliss is the same in subject or in king.
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Most women have no characters at all.
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In vain sedate reflections we would make When half our knowledge we must snatch, not take.
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As the twig is bent, so grows the tree.
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When I die, I should be ashamed to leave enough to build me a monument if there were a wanting friend above ground. I would enjoy the pleasure of what I give by giving it alive and seeing another enjoy it.
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Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, of straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there.
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The season when to come, and when to go, to sing, or cease to sing, we never know.
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What then remains, but well our power to use, And keep good-humor still whate'er we lose? And trust me, dear, good-humor can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.
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O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize, And make my tongue victorious as her eyes.
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Heaven breathes thro' ev'ry member of the whole One common blessing, as one common soul.
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Women use lovers as they do cards they play with them a while, and when they have got all they can by them, throw them away, call for new ones, and then perhaps lose by the new all they got by the old ones.
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