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

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Curse on all laws but those which love has made.
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To observations which ourselves we make, we grow more partial for th' observer's sake.
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And each blasphemer quite escape the rod, Because the insult's not on man, but God?
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How Instinct varies in the grov'ling swine.
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Trust not yourself, but your defects to know, make use of every friend and every foe.
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In a sadly pleasing strain, let the warbling lute complain.
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To the Elysian shades dismiss my soul, where no carnation fades.
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A wise physician, skill'd our wounds to heal, is more than armies to the public weal.
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Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.
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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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For forms of government, let fools contest Whate'er is best administered, is best.
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There still remains to mortify a wit The many-headed monster of the pit.
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Expression is the dress of thought, and still Appears more decent as more suitable A vile conceit in pompous words express'd, Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd.
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One self-approving hour whole years outweighs.
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In death a hero, as in life a friend!
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What's fame? a fancy'd life in other's breath. A thing beyond us, even before our death.
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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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For what I have publish'd, I can only hope to be pardon'd but for what I have burned, I deserve to be prais'd.
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Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
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The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.
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