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Fool, 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam: Know, sense, like charity, begins at home.

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
Fool
Sense
Home
Like
Roam
Wit
Vain
Begins
Charity

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For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best, Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.
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What will a child learn sooner than a song?
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Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate.
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Most authors steal their works, or buy.
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That character in conversation which commonly passes for agreeable is made up of civility and falsehood.
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'Tis not enough your counsel still be true Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do.
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Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow The rest is all but leather and prunello.
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Offend her, and she knows not to forgive Oblige her, and she'll hate you while you live.
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If, presume not to God to scan The proper study of Mankind is Man. Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state, a being darkly wise, and rudely great.
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The approach of night The skies yet blushing with departing light, When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade, And the low sun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.
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For when success a lover's toil attends,Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends
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Chiefs who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer-days like grasshoppers rejoice - A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice.
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It is observable that the ladies frequent tragedies more than comedies the reason may be, that in tragedy their sex is deified and adored, in comedy exposed and ridiculed.
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Who builds a church to God and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name.
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What so pure, which envious tongues will spare? Some wicked wits have libell'd all the fair, With matchless impudence they style a wife, The dear-bought curse, and lawful plague of life A bosom serpent, a domestic evil, A night invasion, and a mid-day devil Let not the wise these sland'rous words regard, But curse the bones of ev'ry living bard.
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I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
Alexander Pope
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In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fixed, 'tis fixed as in a frost.
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There are some solitary wretches who seem to have left the rest of mankind, only, as Eve left Adam, to meet the devil in private.
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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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And little eagles wave their wings in gold.
Alexander Pope