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A perfect judge will read each word of wit with the same spirit that its author writ.
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
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Judge
Judging
Literature
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Perfect
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Writ
Spirit
Wit
More quotes by Alexander Pope
To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite, who never mentions hell to ears polite.
Alexander Pope
Order is Heaven's first law and this confess, Some are and must be greater than the rest.
Alexander Pope
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
Alexander Pope
Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven.
Alexander Pope
To teach vain Wits that Science little known, T' admire Superior Sense, and doubt their own!
Alexander Pope
Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit, There is no cure 'gainst age but it
Alexander Pope
I am his Highness' dog at Kew Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
Alexander Pope
On wrongs swift vengeance waits.
Alexander Pope
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight.
Alexander Pope
Health consists with temperance alone.
Alexander Pope
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.
Alexander Pope
The doubtful beam long nods from side to side.
Alexander Pope
I begin where most people end, with a full conviction of the emptiness of all sorts of ambition, and the unsatisfactory nature of all human pleasures.
Alexander Pope
A patriot is a fool in ev'ry age.
Alexander Pope
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Alexander Pope
On life's vast ocean diversely we sail. Reasons the card, but passion the gale.
Alexander Pope
Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed was the ninth beatitude.
Alexander Pope
Whate'er the talents, or howe'er designed, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind.
Alexander Pope
No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n, Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n But such plain roofs as Piety could raise, And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
Alexander Pope
Die of a rose in aromatic pain.
Alexander Pope
