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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
Never
Contentedly
Deathbed
Fame
Lying
Make

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O peace! how many wars were waged in thy name.
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Give me again my hollow tree A crust of bread, and liberty!
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At length corruption, like a general flood (So long by watchful ministers withstood), Shall deluge all and avarice, creeping on, Spread like a low-born mist, and blot the sun.
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Live like yourself, was soon my lady's word, And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board.
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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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As with narrow-necked bottles the less they have in them, the more noise they make in pouring out.
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Ask you what provocation I have had? The strong antipathy of good to bad.
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Health consists with temperance alone.
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What's fame? a fancy'd life in other's breath. A thing beyond us, even before our death.
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The lot of man - to suffer and to die.
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The difference is too nice - Where ends the virtue or begins the vice.
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Whenever I find a great deal of gratitude in a poor man, I take it for granted there would be as much generosity if he were a rich man.
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The time shall come, when, free as seas or wind, Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind, Whole nations enter with each swelling tide, And seas but join the regions they divide Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold, And the new world launch forth to seek the old.
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Rogues in rags are kept in countenance by rogues in ruffles.
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Let such teach others who themselves excel, And censure freely who have written well.
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Fool, 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam: Know, sense, like charity, begins at home.
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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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Fondly we think we honor merit then, when we but praise ourselves in other men.
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To be, contents his natural desire, He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company. Go wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense Weigh thy opinion against Providence.
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Some place the bliss in action, some in ease, Those call it pleasure, and contentment these.
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