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Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, of straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there.

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
Neither
Hairs
Devil
Straws
Hair
Amber
Pretty
Worms
Wonder
Observe
Rich
Dirt
Form
Rare
Things
Forms
Grubs

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Fine sense and exalted sense are not half so useful as common sense.
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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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To the Elysian shades dismiss my soul, where no carnation fades.
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To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite, who never mentions hell to ears polite.
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Good-nature and good-sense must ever join To err is human, to forgive, divine.
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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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By flatterers besieged And so obliging that he ne'er obliged.
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The dances ended, all the fairy train For pinks and daisies search'd the flow'ry plain.
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As some to Church repair, not for the doctrine, but the music there.
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Words are like Leaves and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.
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Oh, blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven.
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Atheists put on false courage and alacrity in the midst of their darkness and apprehensions, like children who, when they fear to go in the dark, will sing for fear.
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The difference is too nice - Where ends the virtue or begins the vice.
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Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.
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At every trifle take offense, that always shows great pride or little sense.
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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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Good-humor only teaches charms to last, Still makes new conquests and maintains the past.
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Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.
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The blest to-day is as completely so, As who began a thousand years ago.
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Some men's wit is like a dark lantern, which serves their own turn and guides them their own way, but is never known (according to the Scripture phrase) either to shine forth before men, or to glorify their Father in heaven.
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