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Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? In living medals see her wars enroll'd, And vanquished realms supply recording gold?

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
Gold
Supply
Conscious
Realms
Stand
Greek
Enroll
Shall
Claim
Vanquished
Living
Wars
Medals
War
Britain
Roman
Claims
Medal
Fame
Recording

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Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise.
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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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Order is Heaven's first law and this confessed, some are, and must be, greater than the rest, more rich, more wise but who infers from hence that such are happier, shocks all common sense. Condition, circumstance, is not the thing bliss is the same in subject or in king.
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Intestine war no more our passions wage, And giddy factions bear away their rage.
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As some to Church repair, not for the doctrine, but the music there.
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Fickle Fortune reigns, and, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.
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Learning is like mercury, one of the most powerful and excellent things in the world in skillful hands in unskillful, the most mischievous.
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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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With the mistake your life goes in reverse. Now you can see exactly what you did Wrong yesterday and wrong the day before And each mistake leads back to something worse.
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But Satan now is wiser than of yore, and tempts by making rich, not making poor.
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Hear how the birds, on ev'ry blooming spray, With joyous musick wake the dawning day.
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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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How vast a memory has Love!
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Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O grave! where is thy victory? O death! where is thy sting?
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In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fix'd: 't is fix'd as in a frost contracted all, retiring to the breast but strength of mind is exercise, not rest.
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Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be, In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.
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When to mischief mortals bend their will, how soon they find it instruments of ill.
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Some men's wit is like a dark lantern, which serves their own turn and guides them their own way, but is never known (according to the Scripture phrase) either to shine forth before men, or to glorify their Father in heaven.
Alexander Pope
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Giving advice is many times only the privilege of saying a foolish thing one's self, under the pretense of hindering another from doing one.
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Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labor when the end was rest, Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.
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