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Modest plainness sets off sprightly wit, For works may have more with than does 'em good, As bodies perish through excess of blood.

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
Works
Plainness
Blood
Perish
Doe
Ems
Body
Modest
May
Excess
Good
Wit
Sets
Bodies
Sprightly

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Talk what you will of taste, my friend, you'll find two of a face as soon as of a mind.
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Honor and shame from no condition rise. Act well your part: there all the honor lies.
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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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In death a hero, as in life a friend!
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Health consists with temperance alone.
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Why did I write? What sin to me unknown dipped me in ink, my parents , or my own?
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How vast a memory has Love!
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All chance, direction, which thou canst not see
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Death, only death, can break the lasting chain And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain
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A youth of frolic, an old age of cards.
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How index-learning turns no student pale, Yet holds the eel of science by the tail!
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Calm, thinking villains, whom no faith could fix, Of crooked counsels and dark politics.
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Of all affliction taught a lover yet, 'Tis true the hardest science to forget.
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Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall And universal darkness buries all.
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No louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, When husbands or lap-dogs breathe their last.
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Say first, of god above or man below what can we reason but from what we know.
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In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, And Hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound.
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Jarring interests of themselves create the according music of a well-mixed state.
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For forms of government, let fools contest Whate'er is best administered, is best.
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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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