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

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Why did I write? What sin to me unknown dipped me in ink, my parents , or my own?
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Words are like Leaves and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.
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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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Women, as they are like riddles in being unintelligible, so generally resemble them in this, that they please us no longer once we know them.
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Vice is a monster of so frightful mien As to be hated needs but to be seen Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.
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Whether with Reason, or with Instinct blest, Know, all enjoy that pow'r which suits them best.
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But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat, The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat, To closer shades the panting flocks remove Ye gods! And is there no relief for love?
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Silence! coeval with eternity! thou wert ere Nature's self began to be thine was the sway ere heaven was formed on earth, ere fruitful thought conceived creation's birth.
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A man who admires a fine woman, has yet not more reason to wish himself her husband, than one who admired the Hesperian fruit, would have had to wish himself the dragon that kept it.
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Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside, A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.
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Who breaks a butterfly on a wheel?
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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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The difference is as great between The optics seeing as the objects seen. All manners take a tincture from our own Or come discolor'd through out passions shown Or fancy's beam enlarges, multiplies, Contracts, inverts, and gives ten thousand dyes.
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Oh, sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise. By mountains pil'd on mountains to the skies? Heav'n still with laughter the vain toil surveys, And buries madmen in the heaps they raise.
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Not to go back is somewhat to advance, and men must walk, at least, before they dance.
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But see how oft ambition's aims are cross'd, and chiefs contend 'til all the prize is lost!
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True self-love and social are the same.
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What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things.
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No more was seen the human form divine.
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While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.
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