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Fame can never make us lie down contentedly on a deathbed.

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
Contentedly
Deathbed
Fame
Lying
Make
Never

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The dances ended, all the fairy train For pinks and daisies search'd the flow'ry plain.
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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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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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Party-spirit at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.
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No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n, Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n But such plain roofs as Piety could raise, And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
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Teach me to feel another's woe, to hide the fault I see, that mercy I to others show, that mercy show to me.
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I begin where most people end, with a full conviction of the emptiness of all sorts of ambition, and the unsatisfactory nature of all human pleasures.
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Man, like the generous vine, supported lives the strength he gains is from the embrace he gives.
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Oft in dreams invention we bestow to change a flounce or add a furbelow.
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Fortune in men has some small diff'rence made, One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade, The cobbler apron'd, and the parson gown'd, The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd.
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Vice is a monster of so frightful mien As to be hated needs but to be seen Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.
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In various talk th' instructive hours they past, Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last One speaks the glory of the British queen, And one describes a charming Indian screen A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes At every word a reputation dies.
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True politeness consists in being easy one's self, and in making every one about one as easy as one can.
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Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall And universal darkness buries all.
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Judges and senates have been bought for gold Esteem and love were never to be sold.
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See the wild Waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad Sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very Tombs now vanish'd like their dead!
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Praise from a friend, or censure from a foe, Are lost on hearers that our merits know.
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On life's vast ocean diversely we sail, Reason the card, but passion is the gale Nor God alone in the still calm we find, He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind.
Alexander Pope
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And write about it, Goddess, and about it!
Alexander Pope
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Behold the groves that shine with silver frost, their beauty withered, and their verdure lost!
Alexander Pope