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In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, And Hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound.

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
Eternal
Tyrant
Hell
Grim
Shall
Wound
Future
Tyrants
Death
Bound
Feel
Chains
Feels
Wounds
Bounds
Adamantine

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There is nothing wanting to make all rational and disinterested people in the world of one religion, but that they should talk together every day.
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Ladies, like variegated tulips, show 'Tis to their changes half their charms we owe.
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Monuments, like men, submit to fate.
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All nature mourns, the skies relent in showers hushed are the birds, and closed the drooping flowers.
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So man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
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Judges and senates have been bought for gold Esteem and love were never to be sold.
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Vice is a monster of so frightful mien As to be hated needs but to be seen Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.
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Of darkness visible so much be lent, as half to show, half veil, the deep intent.
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Tis use alone that sanctifies expense And splendor borrow all her rays from sense.
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When I die, I should be ashamed to leave enough to build me a monument if there were a wanting friend above ground. I would enjoy the pleasure of what I give by giving it alive and seeing another enjoy it.
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New, distant Scenes of endless Science rise: So pleas'd at first, the towring Alps we try.
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In a sadly pleasing strain, let the warbling lute complain.
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All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul.
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On wings of wind came flying all abroad.
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They dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake.
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Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.
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Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always To be Blest.
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What will a child learn sooner than a song?
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From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.
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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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