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Tis strange the miser should his cares employTo gain those riches he can ne'er enjoyIs it less strange the prodigal should wasteHis wealth to purchase what he ne'er can taste?

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
Enjoy
Cares
Care
Riches
Gain
Gains
Prodigal
Taste
Prodigals
Wealth
Miser
Strange
Misers
Less
Purchase

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Only music has the ability to take you to the edge of reality and allow you to peek in for a moment.
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Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend.
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There still remains to mortify a wit The many-headed monster of the pit.
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An honest man's the noblest work of God.
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A perfect Judge will read each work of Wit With the same spirit that its author writ: Survey the Whole, nor seek slight faults to find Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind.
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Whatever is, is right.
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To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each Seene, and be what they behold: For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage.
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Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain Here earth and water seem to strive again, Not chaos-like together crushed and bruised, But, as the world, harmoniously confused: Where order in variety we see, And where, though all things differ, all agree.
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Heaven breathes thro' ev'ry member of the whole One common blessing, as one common soul.
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See how the World its Veterans rewards! A Youth of Frolics, an old Age of Cards Fair to no purpose, artful to no end, Young without Lovers, old without a Friend A Fop their Passion, but their Prize a Sot Alive ridiculous, and dead forgot.
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The world is a thing we must of necessity either laugh at or be angry at if we laugh at it, they say we are proud if we are angry at it, they say we are ill-natured.
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The vulgar boil, the learned roast, an egg.
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Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.
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Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mixed with Gods, his lov'd idea lies: O write it not, my hand - the name appears Already written - wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeyes.
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A gen'rous heart repairs a sland'rous tongue.
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Mark what unvary'd laws preserve each state, Laws wise as Nature, and as fixed as Fate.
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Never find fault with the absent.
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Fickle Fortune reigns, and, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.
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Amusement is the happiness of those who cannot think.
Alexander Pope
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But touch me, and no minister so sore. Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme, Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, And the sad burthen of some merry song.
Alexander Pope