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Poets heap virtues, painters gems, at will, And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill.

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
Poet
Painters
Virtue
Zeal
Show
Virtues
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Poets
Skill
Hide
Painter
Heap
Skills
Gems

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And all who told it added something new, and all who heard it, made enlargements too.
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These riches are possess'd, but not enjoy'd!
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Why did I write? whose sin to me unknown Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
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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!
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Leave not a foot of verse, a foot of stone, A Page, a Grave, that they can call their own But spread, my sons, your glory thin or thick, On passive paper, or on solid brick.
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Fool, 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam: Know, sense, like charity, begins at home.
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Our grandsire, Adam, ere of Eve possesst, Alone, and e'en in Paradise unblest, With mournful looks the blissful scenes survey'd, And wander'd in the solitary shade. The Maker say, took pity, and bestow'd Woman, the last, the best reserv'd of God.
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Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate.
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Good-nature and good-sense must ever join To err is human, to forgive, divine.
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Virtue may choose the high or low degree, 'Tis just alike to virtue, and to me Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king, She's still the same belov'd, contented thing.
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That virtue only makes our bliss below, And all our knowledge is ourselves to know.
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Wit is the lowest form of humor.
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How index-learning turns no student pale, Yet holds the eel of science by the tail!
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Some positive persisting fops we know, Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so But you with pleasure own your errors past, And make each day a critique on the last.
Alexander Pope
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The light of Heaven restore Give me to see, and Ajax asks no more.
Alexander Pope
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Fondly we think we honor merit then, when we but praise ourselves in other men.
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Still follow sense, of ev'ry art the soul, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole.
Alexander Pope
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Praise from a friend, or censure from a foe, Are lost on hearers that our merits know.
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Art still followed where Rome's eagles flew.
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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.
Alexander Pope