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

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Whenever I find a great deal of gratitude in a poor man, I take it for granted there would be as much generosity if he were a rich man.
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What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards? Alas! not all the blood, of all the Howards.
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True friendship's laws are by this rule express'd, Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.
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Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
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Dogs, ye have had your day!
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Words are like Leaves and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.
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To err is human to forgive, divine.
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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?
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Fine sense and exalted sense are not half so useful as common sense. There are forty men of wit for one man of sense and he that will carry nothing about him but gold, will be every day at a loss for want of readier change.
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The dull flat falsehood serves for policy, and in the cunning, truth's itself a lie.
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Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, And now a bubble burst, and now a world.
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The Dying Christian to His Soul (1712) -Vital spark of heav'nly flame! Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Stanza 1.
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Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, The clamtrous lapwings feel the leaden death Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare They fall, and leave their little lives in air.
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There is a certain majesty in simplicity which is far above all the quaintness of wit.
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Why has not Man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly. Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n.
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All other goods by fortune's hand are given, A wife is the peculiar gift of Heaven.
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Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind!
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Is not absence death to those who love?
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Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.
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Give me again my hollow tree A crust of bread, and liberty!
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