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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
Strain
Complain
Complaining
Music
Lute
Sadly
Pleasing

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Strength of mind is exercise, not rest.
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Heaven gave to woman the peculiar grace To spin, to weep, and cully human race.
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Know then thyself, presume not God to scan The proper study of mankind is man.
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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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Those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
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Silence! coeval with eternity! thou wert ere Nature's self began to be thine was the sway ere heaven was formed on earth, ere fruitful thought conceived creation's birth.
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But just disease to luxury succeeds, And ev'ry death its own avenger breeds.
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Who sees pale Mammom pine amidst his store, Sees but a backward steward for the poor.
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Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare And beauty draws us with a single hair.
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The difference is as great between The optics seeing as the objects seen. All manners take a tincture from our own Or come discolor'd through out passions shown Or fancy's beam enlarges, multiplies, Contracts, inverts, and gives ten thousand dyes.
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As some to Church repair, not for the doctrine, but the music there.
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Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
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He knows to live who keeps the middle state, and neither leans on this side nor on that.
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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 louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, When husbands or lap-dogs breathe their last.
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The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.
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He who serves his brother best gets nearer God than all the rest.
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Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies.
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Who are next to knaves? Those that converse with them.
Alexander Pope
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Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heav'n.
Alexander Pope