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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.

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
Every
Answers
Bodies
Kind
Asks
Shining
Genial
Use
Spread
Herb
Nature
Mines
Spreads
Ends
Mine
Wakes
Power
Flower
Herbs
Earth
Pride
Shine
Body
Whose
Heavenly

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The grave unites where e'en the great find rest, And blended lie th' oppressor and th' oppressed!
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The young disease, that must subdue at length, Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength.
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True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learned to dance.
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In various talk th' instructive hours they past, Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last One speaks the glory of the British queen, And one describes a charming Indian screen A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes At every word a reputation dies.
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Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
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Here am I, dying of a hundred good symptoms.
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Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows.
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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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Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne, They rise, they break, and to that sea return.
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Condition, circumstance, is not the thing Bliss is the same in subject or in king.
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It is sure the hardest science to forget!
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Know, Nature's children all divide her care, The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear.
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I find myself hoping a total end of all the unhappy divisions of mankind by party-spirit, which at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.
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These riches are possess'd, but not enjoy'd!
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Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be, In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.
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Fly, dotard, fly! With thy wise dreams and fables of the sky.
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Monuments, like men, submit to fate.
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Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.
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Say, will the falcon, stooping from above, Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove? Admires the jay the insect's gilded wings? Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings?
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Man, like the generous vine, supported lives the strength he gains is from the embrace he gives.
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