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Such as are still observing upon others are like those who are always abroad at other men's houses, reforming everything there while their own runs to ruin.

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
Men
Upon
Reforming
Like
House
Abroad
Running
Observing
Others
Ruin
Stills
Gossip
Still
Houses
Everything
Runs
Always
Ruins

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In men, we various ruling passions find In women, two almost divide the kind Those, only fixed, they first or last obey, The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.
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Vices and virtues are of a strange nature, for the more we have, the fewer we think we have.
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You beat your Pate, and fancy Wit will come: Knock as you please, there's no body at home.
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Find, if you can, in what you cannot change. Manners with fortunes, humours turn with climes, Tenets with books, and principles with times.
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Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.
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Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
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Placed on this isthmus of a middle state.
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You purchase pain with all that joy can give and die of nothing but a rage to live.
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Like Cato, give his little senate laws, and sit attentive to his own applause.
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For forms of government, let fools contest Whate'er is best administered, is best.
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Trust not yourself, but your defects to know, make use of every friend and every foe.
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Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame, Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame, Averse alike to flatter or offend, Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.
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Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.
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Trace Science, then, with Modesty thy guide, First strip off all her equipage of Pride, Deduct what is but Vanity or Dress, Or Learning's Luxury or idleness, Or tricks, to show the stretch of the human brain Mere curious pleasure or ingenious pain.
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Is it, in Heav'n, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender or too firm a heart, To act a lover's or a Roman's part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
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By music minds an equal temper know, Nor swell too high, nor sink too low. . . . . Warriors she fires with animated sounds. Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds.
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Condition, circumstance, is not the thing Bliss is the same in subject or in king.
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Modest plainness sets off sprightly wit, For works may have more with than does 'em good, As bodies perish through excess of blood.
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Pleasures are ever in our hands or eyes And when in act they cease, in prospect rise.
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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!
Alexander Pope