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See the wild Waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad Sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very Tombs now vanish'd like their dead!

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
Like
Temples
Appears
Sepulchre
Wild
Nodding
Spread
Devouring
Waste
Arches
Broken
Vanish
Dead
Tombs
Years
Rome

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Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend.
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And soften'd sounds along the waters die: Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play.
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Though triumphs were to generals only due, crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too.
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Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn, Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn.
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There should be, methinks, as little merit in loving a woman for her beauty as in loving a man for his prosperity both being equally subject to change.
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Nature made every fop to plague his brother, Just as one beauty mortifies another.
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Whatever is, is right.
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So perish all who do the like again.
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Love the offender, yet detest the offense.
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All looks yellow to a jaundiced eye that habitually compares everything to something better. But by changing that habit to comparing everything to something worse, even making it a game, that person can find gratitude, relief and happiness where-ever they go and whatever they experience, guaranteed!
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Ask you what provocation I have had? The strong antipathy of good to bad.
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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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So vast is art, so narrow human wit.
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There is a majesty in simplicity.
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The greatest advantage I know of being thought a wit by the world is, that it gives one the greater freedom of playing the fool.
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To endeavor to work upon the vulgar with fine sense is like attempting to hew blocks with a razor.
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Why did I write? whose sin to me unknown Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
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There still remains to mortify a wit The many-headed monster of the pit.
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Every man has just as much vanity as he wants understanding.
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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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