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The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his 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
Would
Food
Lambs
Hand
Skip
Lasts
Riot
Last
Crops
Dooms
Hands
Doom
Pleas
Today
Shed
Licks
Reason
Flow
Lamb
Play
Blood
Bleed

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Wine lets no lover unrewarded go.
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The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.
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Trust not yourself, but your defects to know, make use of every friend and every foe.
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A long, exact, and serious comedy In every scene some moral let it teach, And, if it can, at once both please and preach.
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Curse on all laws but those which love has made.
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Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old age away . . . . To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
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Whate'er the talents, or howe'er designed, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind.
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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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Ask you what provocation I have had? The strong antipathy of good to bad.
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A gen'rous heart repairs a sland'rous tongue.
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Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
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Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit, There is no cure 'gainst age but it
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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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But if you'll prosper, mark what I advise, Whom age, and long experience render wise.
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In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, And Hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound.
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Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn, And liquid amber drop from every thorn.
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Though triumphs were to generals only due, crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too.
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Chiefs who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer-days like grasshoppers rejoice - A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice.
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What some call health, if purchased by perpetual anxiety about diet, isn't much better than tedious disease.
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Satire or sense, alas! Can Sporus feel? Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
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