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Give me again my hollow tree A crust of bread, and liberty!

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
Tree
Liberty
Give
Giving
Crust
Hollow
Bread

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Some people will never learn anything, for this reason, because they understand everything too soon.
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Hope humbly then with trembling pinions soar Wait the great teacher, Death, and God adore What future bliss He gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
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As with narrow-necked bottles the less they have in them, the more noise they make in pouring out.
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Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf, Not one will change his neighbor with himself.
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Superstition is the spleen of the soul.
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Know, Nature's children all divide her care, The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear.
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Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate.
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In faith and hope the world will disagree, but all mankind's concern is charity.
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For when success a lover's toil attends,Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends
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I am satisfied to trifle away my time, rather than let it stick by me.
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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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Grave authors say, and witty poets sing, That honest wedlock is a glorious thing.
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Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature's God.
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Some old men, continually praise the time of their youth. In fact, you would almost think that there were no fools in their days, but unluckily they themselves are left as an example.
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He knows to live who keeps the middle state, and neither leans on this side nor on that.
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Vast chain of being! which from God began, Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, No glass can reach, from infinite to Thee, From Thee to nothing.
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Is there a parson much bemused in beer, a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, a clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, who pens a stanza when he should engross?
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Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes: the glorious fault of angels and of gods.
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Poets heap virtues, painters gems, at will, And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill.
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Like Cato, give his little senate laws, and sit attentive to his own applause.
Alexander Pope