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Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss.

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
Ten
Criticism
Wrong
Writing
Amiss
Censure
Writes

More quotes by Alexander Pope

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But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat, The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat, To closer shades the panting flocks remove Ye gods! And is there no relief for love?
Alexander Pope
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Who know but He, whose hand the lightning forms, Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms, Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind.
Alexander Pope
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Giving advice is many times only the privilege of saying a foolish thing one's self, under the pretense of hindering another from doing one.
Alexander Pope
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With the mistake your life goes in reverse. Now you can see exactly what you did Wrong yesterday and wrong the day before And each mistake leads back to something worse.
Alexander Pope
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Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?
Alexander Pope
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Good-nature and good-sense must ever join To err is human, to forgive, divine.
Alexander Pope
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Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.
Alexander Pope
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Party-spirit at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.
Alexander Pope
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Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always To be Blest.
Alexander Pope
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Extremes in nature equal ends produce In man they join to some mysterious use.
Alexander Pope
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In this commonplace world every one is said to be romantic who either admires a fine thing or does one.
Alexander Pope
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Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain Here earth and water seem to strive again, Not chaos-like together crushed and bruised, But, as the world, harmoniously confused: Where order in variety we see, And where, though all things differ, all agree.
Alexander Pope
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See! From the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings Short is his joy! He feels the fiery wound, Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.
Alexander Pope
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Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
Alexander Pope
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Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies.
Alexander Pope
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Our plenteous streams a various race supply, The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye, The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd, The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold, Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, And pikes, the tyrants of the wat'ry plains.
Alexander Pope
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To what base ends, and by what abject ways, Are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise!
Alexander Pope
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The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd
Alexander Pope
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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.
Alexander Pope
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Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild In Wit a man Simplicity, a child.
Alexander Pope