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Some people are commended for a giddy kind of good-humor, which is as much a virtue as drunkenness.

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
Virtue
Much
Kind
Good
People
Commended
Giddy
Drunkenness
Humor

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A field of glory is a field for all.
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To endeavor to work upon the vulgar with fine sense is like attempting to hew blocks with a razor.
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The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife, / To help me through this long disease, my life.
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Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think or bravely die?
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E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me.
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Lo! the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind His soul proud Science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk or milky way.
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Interspersed in lawn and opening glades, Thin trees arise that shun each others' shades.
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We ought, in humanity, no more to despise a man for the misfortunes of the mind than for those of the body, when they are such as he cannot help were this thoroughly considered we should no more laugh at a man for having his brains cracked than for having his head broke.
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Do you find yourself making excuses when you do not perform? Shed the excuses and face reality. Excuses are the loser's way out. They will mar your credibility and stunt your personal growth.
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Our grandsire, Adam, ere of Eve possesst, Alone, and e'en in Paradise unblest, With mournful looks the blissful scenes survey'd, And wander'd in the solitary shade. The Maker say, took pity, and bestow'd Woman, the last, the best reserv'd of God.
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What riches give us let us then inquire: Meat, fire, and clothes. What more? Meat, clothes, and fire. Is this too little?
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All other goods by fortune's hand are given, A wife is the peculiar gift of Heaven.
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I lose my patience, and I own it too, When works are censur'd, not as bad but new While if our Elders break all reason's laws, These fools demand not pardon but Applause.
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Every woman is at heart a rake.
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Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?
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Whate'er the talents, or howe'er designed, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind.
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Jarring interests of themselves create the according music of a well-mixed state.
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Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
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chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd.
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One science only will one genius fit so vast is art, so narrow human wit.
Alexander Pope