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But touch me, and no minister so sore. Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme, Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, And the sad burthen of some merry song.

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
Whole
Ridicule
Long
Verses
Burthen
Time
Rhyme
Offends
Life
Minister
Sore
Ministers
Unlucky
Touch
Slides
Sacred
Verse
Song
Merry

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He who serves his brother best gets nearer God than all the rest.
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The greatest magnifying glasses in the world are a man's own eyes when they look upon his own person.
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What will a child learn sooner than a song?
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In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, And Hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound.
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Judge not of actions by their mere effect Dive to the center, and the cause detect. Great deeds from meanest springs may take their course, And smallest virtues from a mighty source.
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To pardon those absurdities in ourselves which we cannot suffer in others is neither better nor worse than to be more willing to be fools ourselves than to have others so.
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And binding nature fast in fate, Left free the human will.
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Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.
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Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old age away . . . . To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
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To swear is neither brave, polite, nor wise.
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In death a hero, as in life a friend!
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Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.
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Virtue alone is happiness below.
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On life's vast ocean diversely we sail. Reasons the card, but passion the gale.
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Condition, circumstance, is not the thing Bliss is the same in subject or in king.
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When much dispute has past, we find our tenets just the same as last.
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Monuments, like men, submit to fate.
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Fool, 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam: Know, sense, like charity, begins at home.
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Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven.
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While man exclaims, See all things for my use! See man for mine! replies a pamper'd goose.
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