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

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Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
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Pretty conceptions, fine metaphors, glittering expressions, and something of a neat cast of verse are properly the dress, gems, or loose ornaments of poetry.
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Nothing can be more shocking and horrid than one of our kitchens sprinkled with blood, and abounding with the cries of expiring victims or with the limbs of dead animals scattered or hung up here and there.
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Why did I write? What sin to me unknown dipped me in ink, my parents , or my own?
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Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favors call She comes unlooked for, if she comes at all .
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'Tis not enough your counsel still be true Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do.
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A family is but too often a commonwealth of malignants.
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Envy will merit as its shade pursue, But like a shadow, proves the substance true.
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Lo! The poor Indian, whose untutored mind sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind.
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He who serves his brother best gets nearer God than all the rest.
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But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse Sharp Boreas blows, and nature feels decay, Time conquers all, and we must time obey.
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Oh! be thou blest with all that Heaven can send, Long health, long youth, long pleasure-and a friend.
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The flower's are gone when the Fruits appear to ripen.
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Fickle Fortune reigns, and, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.
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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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As the twig is bent, so grows the tree.
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Give me again my hollow tree A crust of bread, and liberty!
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Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit, There is no cure 'gainst age but it
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But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.
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In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fixed, 'tis fixed as in a frost.
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