Quote

I lose my patience, and I own it too, When works are censur'd, not as bad but new While if our Elders break all reason's laws, These fools demand not pardon but Applause.

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
Demand
Fool
Elders
Works
Applause
Lose
Pardon
Loses
Fools
Break
Patience
Law
Criticism
Reason
Laws

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For what I have publish'd, I can only hope to be pardon'd but for what I have burned, I deserve to be prais'd.
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Virtue alone is happiness below.
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There still remains to mortify a wit The many-headed monster of the pit.
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Some have at first for wits, then poets passed, Turned critics next, and proved plain fools at last.
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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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Poets heap virtues, painters gems, at will, And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill.
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Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.
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First follow Nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same: Unerring nature, still divinely bright, One clear, unchanged, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of art.
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A person who is too nice an observer of the business of the crowd, like one who is too curious in observing the labor of bees, will often be stung for his curiosity.
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If a man's character is to be abused there's nobody like a relative to do the business.
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The vulgar boil, the learned roast, an egg.
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To swear is neither brave, polite, nor wise.
Alexander Pope
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Chaos of thought and passion, all confused Still by himself abused or disabused Created half to rise, and half to fall Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled,- The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.
Alexander Pope
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Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath.
Alexander Pope
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This long disease, my life.
Alexander Pope
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What so pure, which envious tongues will spare? Some wicked wits have libell'd all the fair, With matchless impudence they style a wife, The dear-bought curse, and lawful plague of life A bosom serpent, a domestic evil, A night invasion, and a mid-day devil Let not the wise these sland'rous words regard, But curse the bones of ev'ry living bard.
Alexander Pope
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All nature mourns, the skies relent in showers hushed are the birds, and closed the drooping flowers.
Alexander Pope
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Of fight or fly, This choice is left ye, to resist or die.
Alexander Pope
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Every professional was once an amateur.
Alexander Pope
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Leave not a foot of verse, a foot of stone, A Page, a Grave, that they can call their own But spread, my sons, your glory thin or thick, On passive paper, or on solid brick.
Alexander Pope