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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
Unwilling
Base
Gratitude
Mankind

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What some call health, if purchased by perpetual anxiety about diet, isn't much better than tedious disease.
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The most positive men are the most credulous.
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Avoid Extremes and shun the fault of such Who still are pleas'd too little or too much.
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Hear how the birds, on ev'ry blooming spray, With joyous musick wake the dawning day.
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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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At every trifle take offense, that always shows great pride or little sense.
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A youth of frolic, an old age of cards.
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Tis from high Life high Characters are drawn A Saint in Crape is twice a Saint in Lawn: A Judge is just, a Chanc'llor juster still A Gownman learn'd a Bishop what you will Wise if a minister but if a King, More wise, more learn'd, more just, more ev'rything.
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Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn, Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn.
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I think a good deal may be said to extenuate the fault of bad Poets. What we call a Genius, is hard to be distinguish'd by a man himself, from a strong inclination: and if his genius be ever so great, he can not at first discover it any other way, than by giving way to that prevalent propensity which renders him the more liable to be mistaken.
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To what base ends, and by what abject ways, Are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise!
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The character of covetousness, is what a man generally acquires more through some niggardliness or ill grace in little and inconsiderable things, than in expenses of any consequence.
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Music resembles poetry, in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a master hand alone can reach.
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Whate'er the talents, or howe'er designed, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind.
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This long disease, my life.
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Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who lost my heart while I preserv'd my sheep.
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Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
Alexander Pope
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As some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire While expletives their feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.
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By music minds an equal temper know, Nor swell too high, nor sink too low. . . . . Warriors she fires with animated sounds. Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds.
Alexander Pope
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At present we can only reason of the divine justice from what we know of justice in man. When we are in other scenes, we may have truer and nobler ideas of it but while we are in this life, we can only speak from the volume that is laid open before us.
Alexander Pope