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Still when the lust of tyrant power succeeds, some Athens perishes, or some Tully bleeds.

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
Succeed
Stills
Bleeds
Power
Perishes
Still
Athens
Tyrant
Succeeds
Tyrants
Lust

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Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn, Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn.
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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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Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense weigh thy opinion against Providence.
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Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
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Oft in dreams invention we bestow to change a flounce or add a furbelow.
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Every woman is at heart a rake.
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Tis thus the mercury of man is fix'd, Strong grows the virtue with his nature mix'd.
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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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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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The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.
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Know, Nature's children all divide her care, The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear.
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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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Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, Our greatest evil, or our greatest good.
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All Nature is but art, unknown to thee All chance, direction, which thou canst not see All discord, harmony not understood All partial evil, universal good.
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Tis all in vain to keep a constant pother About one vice and fall into another.
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Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.
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It is not so much the being exempt from faults, as having overcome them, that is an advantage to us.
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Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind!
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Where beams of imagination play, the memory's soft figures melt away.
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Get your enemy to read your works in order to mend them, for your friend is so much your second self that he will judge too like you.
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