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I have more zeal than wit.

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
Zeal
Wit

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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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The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, and wretches hang that jurymen may dine.
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Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn, Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn.
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As some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire While expletives their feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.
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And seem to walk on wings, and tread in air.
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Though triumphs were to generals only due, crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too.
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Who are next to knaves? Those that converse with them.
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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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The Physician, by the study and inspection of urine and ordure, approves himself in the science and in like sort should our author accustom and exercise his imagination upon the dregs of nature.
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Like Cato, give his little senate laws, and sit attentive to his own applause.
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A man who admires a fine woman, has yet not more reason to wish himself her husband, than one who admired the Hesperian fruit, would have had to wish himself the dragon that kept it.
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Content if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view, The learn'd reflect on what before they knew.
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While I live, no rich or noble knave shall walk the world in credit to his grave.
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Every man has just as much vanity as he wants understanding.
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Die of a rose in aromatic pain.
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A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead.
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Count all th' advantage prosperous Vice attains, 'Tis but what Virtue flies from and disdains: And grant the bad what happiness they would, One they must want--which is, to pass for good.
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Death, only death, can break the lasting chain And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain
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The lot of man - to suffer and to die.
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How loved, how honored once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot A heap of dust alone remains of thee 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
Alexander Pope