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Fine sense and exalted sense are not half so useful as common sense. There are forty men of wit for one man of sense and he that will carry nothing about him but gold, will be every day at a loss for want of readier change.

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
Common
Exalted
Half
Wit
Sense
Forty
Change
Useful
Nothing
Carry
Every
Gold
Men
Loss
Fine
Readier

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Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
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Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, Our greatest evil, or our greatest good.
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A long, exact, and serious comedy In every scene some moral let it teach, And, if it can, at once both please and preach.
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Music resembles poetry, in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a master hand alone can reach.
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For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife.
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Sole judge of Truth, in endless Error hurled: / The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!
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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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Genius involves both envy and calumny.
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Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.
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Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, The clamtrous lapwings feel the leaden death Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare They fall, and leave their little lives in air.
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Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.
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Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think or bravely die?
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Tis thus the mercury of man is fix'd, Strong grows the virtue with his nature mix'd.
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Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast But shall the dignity of vice be lost?
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But see how oft ambition's aims are cross'd, and chiefs contend 'til all the prize is lost!
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What Conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do This teach me more than Hell to shun, That more than Heav'n pursue.
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Good-nature and good-sense must ever join To err is human, to forgive, divine.
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There are some solitary wretches who seem to have left the rest of mankind, only, as Eve left Adam, to meet the devil in private.
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For thee I dim these eye and stuff this head With all such reading as was never read.
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Fly, dotard, fly! With thy wise dreams and fables of the sky.
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