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

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I never knew any man in my life who could not bear another's misfortunes perfectly like a Christian.
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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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The learned is happy, nature to explore The fool is happy, that he knows no more.
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He knows to live who keeps the middle state, and neither leans on this side nor on that.
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But thousands die without or this or that, Die, and endow a college or a cat.
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What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, Is virtue's prize.
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Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.
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The vulgar boil, the learned roast, an egg.
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While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.
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Pleas'd look forward, pleas'd to look behind,And count each birthday with a grateful mind.
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One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight.
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But honest instinct comes a volunteer Sure never to o'er-shoot, but just to hit, While still too wide or short in human wit.
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Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always To be Blest.
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Hope humbly then with trembling pinions soar Wait the great teacher, Death, and God adore What future bliss He gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
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Chaos of thought and passion, all confused Still by himself abused or disabused Created half to rise, and half to fall Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled,- The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.
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Sickness is a sort of early old age it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state.
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The blest to-day is as completely so, As who began a thousand years ago.
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The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.
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Praise undeserved, is satire in disguise.
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To the Elysian shades dismiss my soul, where no carnation fades.
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