Quote

Trade it may help, society extend, But lures the Pirate, ant corrupts the friend: It raises armies in a nation's aid, But bribes a senate, and the land's betray'd.

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
Nations
Senate
Corrupts
Help
Aids
Bribe
Society
Raises
Lure
Helping
Army
Armies
Money
Trade
Pirate
May
Nation
Ants
Friend
Extend
Bribes
Land
Betray
Lures

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Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.
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Unblemish'd let me live or die unknown Oh, grant an honest fame, or grant me none!
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But blind to former as to future fate, what mortal knows his pre-existent state?
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Index-learning turns no student pale, Yet holds the eel of Science by the tail. Index-learning is a term used to mock pretenders who acquire superficial knowledge merely by consulting indexes.
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Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.
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What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things.
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The only time you run out of chances is when you stop taking them
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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.
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Interspersed in lawn and opening glades, Thin trees arise that shun each others' shades.
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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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Fortune in men has some small diff'rence made, One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade, The cobbler apron'd, and the parson gown'd, The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd.
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Truth needs not flowers of speech.
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To err is human to forgive, divine.
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This long disease, my life.
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Dear, damned, distracting town, farewell! Thy fools no more I'll tease: This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, sleep at ease!
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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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Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, Our greatest evil, or our greatest good.
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Some men's wit is like a dark lantern, which serves their own turn and guides them their own way, but is never known (according to the Scripture phrase) either to shine forth before men, or to glorify their Father in heaven.
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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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