Quote

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

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Of all the causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgement, and misguide the mind, What the weak head with strongest bias rules, Is PRIDE, the never-failing vice of fools.
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Dear, damned, distracting town, farewell! Thy fools no more I'll tease: This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, sleep at ease!
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Act well your part, there all the honour lies.
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Sure of their qualities and demanding praise, more go to ruined fortunes than are raised.
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Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
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Pride is still aiming at the best houses: Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell aspiring to be angels men rebel.
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It is observable that the ladies frequent tragedies more than comedies the reason may be, that in tragedy their sex is deified and adored, in comedy exposed and ridiculed.
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Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
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Some people are commended for a giddy kind of good-humor, which is as much a virtue as drunkenness.
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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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To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite, who never mentions hell to ears polite.
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Search then the ruling passion: This clue, once found, unravels all the rest.
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The vulgar boil, the learned roast, an egg.
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Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies.
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Nor in the critic let the man be lost.
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What some call health, if purchased by perpetual anxiety about diet, isn't much better than tedious disease.
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But to the world no bugbear is so great, As want of figure and a small estate.
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The enormous faith of many made for one.
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See the wild Waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad Sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very Tombs now vanish'd like their dead!
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There is nothing wanting to make all rational and disinterested people in the world of one religion, but that they should talk together every day.
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