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Wholesome solitude, the nurse of sense!

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
Wholesome
Nurse
Solitude
Sense

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How happy is the blameless vestal's lot? The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
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What Reason weaves, by Passion is undone.
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Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature's God.
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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.
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Genius involves both envy and calumny.
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Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
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Oh, blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven.
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The villain's censure is extorted praise.
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Is not absence death to those who love?
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Amusement is the happiness of those who cannot think.
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Hear how the birds, on ev'ry blooming spray, With joyous musick wake the dawning day.
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How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
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Coffee which makes the politician wise, and see through all things with his half-shut eyes.
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A youth of frolic, an old age of cards.
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Hope springs eternal.
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How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, and love the offender, yet detest the offence?
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Cursed be the verse, how well so e'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe.
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Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for a time, leave us the weaker ever after.
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So man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
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To happy convents, bosomed deep in vines, Where slumber abbots, purple as their wines.
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