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Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend, With whom my muse began, with who shall end.

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
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Good
Defend
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Whose
Cause
Shall
Causes
Dulness

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Fickle Fortune reigns, and, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.
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Why did I write? What sin to me unknown dipped me in ink, my parents , or my own?
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Genius involves both envy and calumny.
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Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?
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To be angry is to revenge the faults of others on ourselves.
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Give me again my hollow tree A crust of bread, and liberty!
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One self-approving hour whole years outweighs.
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Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always To be Blest.
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Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.
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She went from opera, park, assembly, play, To morning walks, and prayers three hours a day. To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, To muse, and spill her solitary tea, Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon.
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Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.
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Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
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See plastic Nature working to this end, The single atoms each to other tend, Attract, attracted to, the next in place Form'd and impell'd its neighbor to embrace.
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Nor in the critic let the man be lost.
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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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On life's vast ocean diversely we sail. Reasons the card, but passion the gale.
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First follow Nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same: Unerring nature, still divinely bright, One clear, unchanged, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of art.
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Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
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Learn from the beasts the physic of the field.
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