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No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings, Shall, list'ning, in mid-air suspend their wings.

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
Sings
List
Lists
Wings
Ning
Air
Daphne
Shall
Mounting
Suspend
Larks

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From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.
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How happy is the blameless vestal's lot? The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
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The difference is too nice - Where ends the virtue or begins the vice.
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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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Give me again my hollow tree A crust of bread, and liberty!
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Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear.
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Homer excels all the inventors of other arts in this: that he has swallowed up the honor of those who succeeded him.
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Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.
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A tree is a nobler object than a prince in his coronation-robes.
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A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!
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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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She went from opera, park, assembly, play, To morning walks, and prayers three hours a day. To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, To muse, and spill her solitary tea, Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon.
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Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide,Or gave his father grief but when he died.
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For forms of government, let fools contest Whate'er is best administered, is best.
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Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.
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Be thou the first true merit to befriend, his praise is lost who stays till all commend.
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True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learned to dance.
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Presumptuous Man! the reason wouldst thou find,Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind?First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less!Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are madeTaller or stronger than the weeds they shade?Or ask of yonder argent fields above,Why Jove's Satellites are less than Jove?
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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?
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Tis thus the mercury of man is fix'd, Strong grows the virtue with his nature mix'd.
Alexander Pope