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A pear-tree planted nigh: 'Twas charg'd with fruit that made a goodly show, And hung with dangling pears was every bough.

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
Planted
Hung
Dangling
Fruit
Bough
Tree
Goodly
Show
Pear
Shows
Twas
Made
Pears
Every
Nigh

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Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?
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The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy.
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Truth shines the brighter, clad in verse.
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Education forms the common mind.
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Atheists put on false courage and alacrity in the midst of their darkness and apprehensions, like children who, when they fear to go in the dark, will sing for fear.
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Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine, Earth for whose use? Pride answers, 'Tis for mine For me kind nature wakes her genial power, Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower.
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Man never thinks himself happy, but when he enjoys those things which others want or desire.
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No one should be ashamed to admit they are wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that they are wiser today than they were yesterday.
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Ye gods, annihilate but space and time, And make two lovers happy.
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If faith itself has different dresses worn, What wonder modes in wit should take their turn?
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Taste, that eternal wanderer, which flies From head to ears, and now from ears to eyes.
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The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd
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Honor and shame from no condition rise. Act well your part: there all the honor lies.
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Genius involves both envy and calumny.
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Fine sense and exalted sense are not half so useful as common sense.
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Fondly we think we honor merit then, when we but praise ourselves in other men.
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Ye flowers that drop, forsaken by the spring, Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing, Ye trees that fade, when Autumn heats remove, Say, is not absence death to those who love?
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The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.
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Love, Hope, and Joy, fair pleasure's smiling train, Hate, Fear, and Grief, the family of pain, These mix'd with art, and to due bounds confin'd Make and maintain the balance of the mind.
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Yes, I am proud I must be proud to see Men not afraid of God, afraid of me.
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