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In a sadly pleasing strain, let the warbling lute complain.

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
Sadly
Pleasing
Strain
Complain
Complaining
Music
Lute

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To dazzle let the vain design, To raise the thought and touch the heart, be thine!
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Education forms the common mind. Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined.
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Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who lost my heart while I preserv'd my sheep.
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Still when the lust of tyrant power succeeds, some Athens perishes, or some Tully bleeds.
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If it be the chief point of friendship to comply with a friends motions and inclinations, he possesses this in a eminent degree he lies down when I sit, and walks when I walk, which is more than many good friends can pretend to do.
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See the wild Waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad Sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very Tombs now vanish'd like their dead!
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Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid, Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid.
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In faith and hope the world will disagree, but all mankind's concern is charity.
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To swear is neither brave, polite, nor wise.
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While man exclaims, See all things for my use! See man for mine! replies a pamper'd goose.
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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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If faith itself has different dresses worn, What wonder modes in wit should take their turn?
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Such as are still observing upon others are like those who are always abroad at other men's houses, reforming everything there while their own runs to ruin.
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Who finds not Providence all good and wise, Alike in what it gives, and what denies.
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See! From the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings Short is his joy! He feels the fiery wound, Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.
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Nor in the critic let the man be lost.
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O let us still the secret joy partake, To follow virtue even for virtue's sake.
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The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.
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Every woman is at heart a rake.
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It often happens that those are the best people whose characters have been most injured by slanderers: as we usually find that to be the sweetest fruit which the birds have been picking at.
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