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So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art By doctor's bills to play the doctor's part, Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.

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
Art
Doctors
Prescribe
Part
Rules
Bold
Play
Masters
Mistaken
Fool
Apply
Taught
Fools
Modern
Doctor
Practice
Bills
Call
Medicine

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That character in conversation which commonly passes for agreeable is made up of civility and falsehood.
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For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife.
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Tis true, 'tis certain man, though dead, retains Part of himself the immortal mind remains.
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Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mixed with Gods, his lov'd idea lies: O write it not, my hand - the name appears Already written - wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeyes.
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To the Elysian shades dismiss my soul, where no carnation fades.
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For thee I dim these eye and stuff this head With all such reading as was never read.
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Some old men, continually praise the time of their youth. In fact, you would almost think that there were no fools in their days, but unluckily they themselves are left as an example.
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The people's voice is odd, It is, and it is not, the voice of God.
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All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul.
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The heart resolves this matter in a trice, Men only feel the smart, but not the vice.
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Why has not Man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly. Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n.
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Still follow sense, of ev'ry art the soul, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole.
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She who ne'er answers till a husband cools, Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules Charms by accepting, by submitting, sways, Yet has her humor most, when she obeys.
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The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.
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From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.
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Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
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The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy.
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The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read With loads of learned lumber in his head.
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Wit is the lowest form of humor.
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Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend, With whom my muse began, with who shall end.
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