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The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife gives all the strength and color of our life.

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
Giving
Variety
Life
Whose
Strength
Gives
Accorded
Color
Shades
Light
Strife
Wells
Lights
Well
Shade

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New, distant Scenes of endless Science rise: So pleas'd at first, the towring Alps we try.
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Oft in dreams invention we bestow to change a flounce or add a furbelow.
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Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, Lie in three words,-health, peace, and competence.
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A brave man thinks no one his superior who does him an injury, for he has it then in his power to make himself superior to the other by forgiving it.
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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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Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
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If a man's character is to be abused there's nobody like a relative to do the business.
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Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend.
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In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fix'd: 't is fix'd as in a frost contracted all, retiring to the breast but strength of mind is exercise, not rest.
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To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each Seene, and be what they behold: For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage.
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Love the offender, yet detest the offense.
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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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Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit, There is no cure 'gainst age but it
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I never knew any man in my life who could not bear another's misfortunes perfectly like a Christian.
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Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.
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I have more zeal than wit.
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Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
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Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, Our greatest evil, or our greatest good.
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Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mixed with Gods, his lov'd idea lies: O write it not, my hand - the name appears Already written - wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeyes.
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Though triumphs were to generals only due, crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too.
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