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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
Shall
Claim
Vanquished
Living
Wars
Medals
War
Britain
Roman
Claims
Medal
Fame
Recording
Gold
Supply
Conscious
Realms
Stand
Greek
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Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land? All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
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Others import yet nobler arts from France, Teach kings to fiddle, and make senates dance.
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So upright Quakers please both man and God.
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A family is but too often a commonwealth of malignants.
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Woman's at best a contradiction still.
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The scripture in times of disputes is like an open town in times of war, which serves in differently the occasions of both parties.
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Curse on all laws but those which love has made.
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Who finds not Providence all good and wise, Alike in what it gives, and what denies.
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An excuse is worse and more terrible than a lie for an excuse is a lie guarded.
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We may see the small value God has for riches, by the people he gives them to.
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Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn, And liquid amber drop from every thorn.
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Most authors steal their works, or buy.
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The greatest advantage I know of being thought a wit by the world is, that it gives one the greater freedom of playing the fool.
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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.
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Sleep and death, two twins of winged race, Of matchless swiftness, but of silent pace.
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An obstinate person does not hold opinions they hold them.
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Fickle Fortune reigns, and, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.
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Eve left Adam, to meet the Devil in private.
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Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mixed with Gods, his lov'd idea lies: O write it not, my hand - the name appears Already written - wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeyes.
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That virtue only makes our bliss below, And all our knowledge is ourselves to know.
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