Alexander Pope (1688 – 1744)
Considered one of the greatest English poets of the eighteenth century.
Happy the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.
I am his Highness' dog at Kew;
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
Love seldom haunts the breast where learning lies,
And Venus sets ere Mercury can rise.
Passions…are the gales of life…
Is it, in Heav'n, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
I think a good deal may be said to extenuate the fault of bad Poets. What we call a Genius, is hard to be distinguish'd by a man himself, from a strong inclination: and if his genius be ever so great, he can not at first discover it any other way, than by giving way to that prevalent propensity which renders him the more liable to be mistaken.
To be angry, is to revenge the fault of others upon ourselves.
Let such, such only tread this sacred floor,
Who dare to love their country and be poor.
Some old men, by continually praising the time of their youth, would almost persuade us that there were no fools in those days; but unluckily they are left themselves for examples.
Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild;
In Wit, a Man; Simplicity, a Child.
Let me tell you I am better acquainted with you for a long Absence, as men are with themselves for a long affliction: Absence does but hold off a friend, to make one see him the truer.
The most positive men are the most credulous…
Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide,
Or gave his father grief but when he died.
So unaffected, so compos'd a mind;
So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so retin'd;
Heav'n, as its purest gold, by tortures try'd;
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.
What beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
"Boast not my fall (he cried), insulting foe!
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low;
Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind;
All that I dread is leaving you behind!
Rather than so, ah let me still survive,
And burn in Cupid's flames — but burn alive."
And binding Nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will.
If to her share some female errors fall,
Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.
When men grow virtuous in their old age, they only make a sacrifice to God of the devil's leavings.
You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come;
Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.