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There should be, methinks, as little merit in loving a woman for her beauty as in loving a man for his prosperity both being equally subject to change.

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
Change
Equally
Littles
Merit
Little
Prosperity
Men
Loving
Subject
Subjects
Beauty
Woman
Methinks

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Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, Our greatest evil, or our greatest good.
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A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.
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Education forms the common mind.
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What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, Is virtue's prize.
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But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain. The wond'ring forests soon should dance again The moving mountains hear the powerful call. And headlong streams hand listening in their fall!
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Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss.
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Get place and wealth, if possible with grace if not, by any means get wealth and place.
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Be niggards of advice on no pretense For the worst avarice is that of sense.
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A perfect judge will read each word of wit with the same spirit that its author writ.
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Coffee which makes the politician wise, and see through all things with his half-shut eyes.
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Why did I write? whose sin to me unknown Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
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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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Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.
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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.
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Here am I, dying of a hundred good symptoms.
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Modest plainness sets off sprightly wit, For works may have more with than does 'em good, As bodies perish through excess of blood.
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At length corruption, like a general flood (So long by watchful ministers withstood), Shall deluge all and avarice, creeping on, Spread like a low-born mist, and blot the sun.
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The season when to come, and when to go, to sing, or cease to sing, we never know.
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Still follow sense, of ev'ry art the soul, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole.
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In pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies All quit their sphere and rush into the skies. Pride still is aiming at the bless'd abodes, Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
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