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

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Love, Hope, and Joy, fair pleasure's smiling train, Hate, Fear, and Grief, the family of pain, These mix'd with art, and to due bounds confin'd Make and maintain the balance of the mind.
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Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?
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A youth of frolic, an old age of cards.
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Wholesome solitude, the nurse of sense!
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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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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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So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art By doctor's bills to play the doctor's part, Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
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Envy will merit as its shade pursue, But like a shadow, proves the substance true.
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Superstition is the spleen of the soul.
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Some praise at morning what they blame at night, but always think the last opinion right.
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I am his Highness' dog at Kew Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
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When we are young, we are slavishly employed in procuring something whereby we may live comfortably when we grow old and when we are old, we perceive it is too late to live as we proposed.
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It is sure the hardest science to forget!
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True disputants are like true sportsmen: their whole delight is in the pursuit.
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The meeting points the sacred hair dissever From the fair head, forever, and forever! Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies.
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I lose my patience, and I own it too, When works are censur'd, not as bad but new While if our Elders break all reason's laws, These fools demand not pardon but Applause.
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And binding nature fast in fate, Left free the human will.
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See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head! Philosophy, that lean'd on Heav'n before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense! See Mystery to Mathematics fly!
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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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Thus God and nature linked the gen'ral frame, And bade self-love and social be the same.
Alexander Pope