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Unthought-of Frailties cheat us in the Wise.

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
Wise
Unthought
Frailties
Frailty
Cheat

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Men, some to business, some to pleasure take But every woman is at heart a rake.
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Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
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Let sinful bachelors their woes deplore full well they merit all they feel, and more: unaw by precepts, human or divine, like birds and beasts, promiscuously they join.
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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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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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No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings, Shall, list'ning, in mid-air suspend their wings.
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Still when the lust of tyrant power succeeds, some Athens perishes, or some Tully bleeds.
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Great oaks grow from little acorns. He has a green thumb. He has green fingers. He's sowing his wild oats. Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.
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O peace! how many wars were waged in thy name.
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Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.
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Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
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Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
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Health consists with temperance alone.
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At ev'ry word a reputation dies.
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Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of fate, All but the page prescribed, their present state: From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Or who could suffer being here below?
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To what base ends, and by what abject ways, Are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise!
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Those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
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Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell, For sober, studious days!
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The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.
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