Quote

Praise is like ambergrease: a little whiff of it, and by snatches, is very agreeable but when a man holds a whole lump of it to your nose, it is a stink, and strikes you down.

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
Men
Nose
Like
Noses
Holds
Snatches
Strikes
Whiff
Praise
Lump
Littles
Lumps
Little
Agreeable
Whole
Stink

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How do we know that we have a right to kill creatures that we are so little above, as dogs, for our curiosity or even for some use to us?
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Count all th' advantage prosperous Vice attains, 'Tis but what Virtue flies from and disdains: And grant the bad what happiness they would, One they must want--which is, to pass for good.
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No, make me mistress to the man I love If there be yet another name more free More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
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While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.
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Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.
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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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Party-spirit at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.
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At present we can only reason of the divine justice from what we know of justice in man. When we are in other scenes, we may have truer and nobler ideas of it but while we are in this life, we can only speak from the volume that is laid open before us.
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But thousands die without or this or that, Die, and endow a college or a cat.
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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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Not always actions show the man we find who does a kindness is not therefore kind.
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Why did I write? whose sin to me unknown Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
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A family is but too often a commonwealth of malignants.
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Sickness is a sort of early old age it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state.
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Heaven forming each on other to depend, A master, or a servant, or a friend, Bids each on other for assistance call, Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all.
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In men, we various ruling passions find In women, two almost divide the kind Those, only fixed, they first or last obey, The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.
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The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy.
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In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?
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Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne, They rise, they break, and to that sea return.
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Mankind is unamendable.
Alexander Pope