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Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind!

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
Gratitude
Mankind
Unwilling
Base

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Who pants for glory, finds but short repose A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.
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A person who is too nice an observer of the business of the crowd, like one who is too curious in observing the labor of bees, will often be stung for his curiosity.
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To swear is neither brave, polite, nor wise.
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All nature mourns, the skies relent in showers hushed are the birds, and closed the drooping flowers.
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From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.
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Ah! why, ye Gods, should two and two make four?
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Every woman is at heart a rake.
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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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There is nothing wanting to make all rational and disinterested people in the world of one religion, but that they should talk together every day.
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In death a hero, as in life a friend!
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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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Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old age away . . . . To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
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Atheists put on false courage and alacrity in the midst of their darkness and apprehensions, like children who, when they fear to go in the dark, will sing for fear.
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A pear-tree planted nigh: 'Twas charg'd with fruit that made a goodly show, And hung with dangling pears was every bough.
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Some have at first for wits, then poets passed, Turned critics next, and proved plain fools at last.
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But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain. The wond'ring forests soon should dance again The moving mountains hear the powerful call. And headlong streams hand listening in their fall!
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But to the world no bugbear is so great, As want of figure and a small estate.
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By flatterers besieged And so obliging that he ne'er obliged.
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Then sculpture and her sister arts revived stones leaped to form, and rocks began to live.
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Die of a rose in aromatic pain.
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