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Age and want sit smiling at the gate.

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
Gate
Smiling
Gates
Age

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The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, and wretches hang that jurymen may dine.
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In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?
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Whatever is, is right.
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Trust not yourself, but your defects to know, make use of every friend and every foe.
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In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend.
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Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside, A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.
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Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, of straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there.
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It is very natural for a young friend and a young lover to think the persons they love have nothing to do but to please them.
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Did some more sober critics come abroad? If wrong, I smil'd if right, I kiss'd the rod.
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There never was any party, faction, sect, or cabal whatsoever, in which the most ignorant were not the most violent for a bee is not a busier animal than a blockhead.
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Fondly we think we honor merit then, when we but praise ourselves in other men.
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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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Chaos of thought and passion, all confused Still by himself abused or disabused Created half to rise, and half to fall Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled,- The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.
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The man that loves and laughs must sure do well.
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A patriot is a fool in ev'ry age.
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Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
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To err is human to forgive, divine.
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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.
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Oh, blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven.
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Judge not of actions by their mere effect Dive to the center, and the cause detect. Great deeds from meanest springs may take their course, And smallest virtues from a mighty source.
Alexander Pope