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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
Sense
Wholesome
Nurse
Solitude

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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.
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Let such teach others who themselves excel, And censure freely who have written well.
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True Wit is Nature to advantage dress'd What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd Something whose truth convinced at sight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind. As shades more sweetly recommend the light, So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.
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In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?
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How loved, how honored once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot A heap of dust alone remains of thee 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
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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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Woman's at best a contradiction still.
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Such as are still observing upon others are like those who are always abroad at other men's houses, reforming everything there while their own runs to ruin.
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The man that loves and laughs must sure do well.
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Amusement is the happiness of those who cannot think.
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Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools and pageant of a day So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow For others' good, or melt at others' woe.
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No one should be ashamed to admit they are wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that they are wiser today than they were yesterday.
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Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glittering thoughts struck out at ev'ry line Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
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On life's vast ocean diversely we sail. Reasons the card, but passion the gale.
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When to mischief mortals bend their will, how soon they find it instruments of ill.
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Sole judge of Truth, in endless Error hurled: / The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!
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Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise My footstool earth, my canopy the skies.
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How Instinct varies in the grov'ling swine.
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E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me.
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Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
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