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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.

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
Blue
Rust
Hundred
Adore
Value
Pale
Endears
Values
Twice
Varnish
Years
Ten
Pore
Sacred
Inscription
Sight
Inscriptions
Green
Sharpen

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Time conquers all, and we must time obey.
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Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide,Or gave his father grief but when he died.
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We may see the small value God has for riches, by the people he gives them to.
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Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old.
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Live like yourself, was soon my lady's word, And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board.
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But just disease to luxury succeeds, And ev'ry death its own avenger breeds.
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As some to Church repair, not for the doctrine, but the music there.
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So perish all who do the like again.
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Genuine religion is not so much a matter of feeling as a matter of principle.
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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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Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.
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Most women have no characters at all.
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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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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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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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Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain awake but one, and in, what myriads rise!
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Sickness is a sort of early old age it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state.
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Truth shines the brighter, clad in verse.
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Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
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Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be, In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.
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