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So man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.

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
Seems
Wheels
Whole
Unknown
Verges
Men
Acts
Verge
Perhaps
Touches
Second
Sphere
Alone
Wheel
Goal
Spheres
Part
Principal

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True friendship's laws are by this rule express'd, Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.
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Heaven breathes thro' ev'ry member of the whole One common blessing, as one common soul.
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Some place the bliss in action, some in ease, Those call it pleasure, and contentment these.
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Age and want sit smiling at the gate.
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Our plenteous streams a various race supply, The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye, The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd, The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold, Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, And pikes, the tyrants of the wat'ry plains.
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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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No louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, When husbands or lap-dogs breathe their last.
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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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What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
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Fear not the anger of the wise to raise Those best can bear reproof who merit praise.
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In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fix'd: 't is fix'd as in a frost contracted all, retiring to the breast but strength of mind is exercise, not rest.
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To Him no high, no low, no great, no small He fills, He bounds, connects and equals all!
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With sharpen'd sight pale Antiquaries pore, Th' inscription value, but the rust adore. This the blue varnish, that the green endears The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years.
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Wine lets no lover unrewarded go.
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If I am right, Thy grace impart Still in the right to stay If I am wrong, O, teach my heart To find that better way!
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Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always To be Blest.
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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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Consult the genius of the place, that paints as you plant, and as you work.
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I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
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What then remains, but well our power to use, And keep good-humor still whate'er we lose? And trust me, dear, good-humor can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.
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