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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
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the City
Pope the Poet
Alexander I Pope
Alexander
I Pope
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Cause
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Dulness
Ends
Muse
Good
Defend
Began

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The lot of man - to suffer and to die.
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Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
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Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mixed with Gods, his lov'd idea lies: O write it not, my hand - the name appears Already written - wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeyes.
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As with narrow-necked bottles the less they have in them, the more noise they make in pouring out.
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While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.
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A man who admires a fine woman, has yet not more reason to wish himself her husband, than one who admired the Hesperian fruit, would have had to wish himself the dragon that kept it.
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In faith and hope the world will disagree, but all mankind's concern is charity.
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Consult the Genius of the Place in all.
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Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glittering thoughts struck out at ev'ry line Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
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Learn to live well, or fairly make your will You've play'd, and lov'd, and ate, and drank your fill: Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age Comes titt'ring on, and shoves you from the stage.
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Vast chain of being! which from God began, Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, No glass can reach, from infinite to Thee, From Thee to nothing.
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The Dying Christian to His Soul (1712) -Vital spark of heav'nly flame! Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Stanza 1.
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Grave authors say, and witty poets sing, That honest wedlock is a glorious thing.
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Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow The rest is all but leather and prunello.
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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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Conceit is to nature what paint is to beauty it is not only needless, but it impairs what it would improve.
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From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.
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A wise physician, skill'd our wounds to heal, is more than armies to the public weal.
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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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