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Alexander Pope Quotes

1688–1744 England

Alexander Pope (21 May 1688 – 30 May 1744) was a poet and satirist of the Augustan period and one of its greatest artistic exponents. Considered the foremost English poet of the early 18th century and a master of the heroic couplet, he is best known for satirical and discursive poetry.

England
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Also known as: Pope, Alexander

Random Alexander Pope quote

535 quotes

When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away.

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear.)

To laugh were want of goodness and of grace;
And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face.

Sure if they cannot cut, it may be said
His saws are toothless, and his hatchets lead.

Bring, bring the madding Bay, the drunken vine,
The creeping, dirty, courtly Ivy join

So watchful Bruin forms with plastic care,
Each growing lump and brings it to a bear.

Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear;
'Tis but the funeral of the former year.

All, look up with reverential awe,
At crimes that 'scape, or triumph o'er the law.

And he whose fustian's so sublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but prose run mad.

By flatterers besieged
And so obliging that he ne'er obliged.

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

An Essay on Criticism (1709)

Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The Dying Christian to His Soul (1712)

And deal damnation round the land.

Let us (since life can little more supply
Than just to look about us and to die)
Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man;
A mighty maze! but not without a plan.

So man, who here seems principal alone,
Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal;
'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.

So unaffected, so compos'd a mind;
So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refin'd;
Heav'n, as its purest gold, by tortures try'd;
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.

Epitaph on Mrs. Corbet (1730)

Farewell then, verse, and love, and ev'ry toy,
The rhymes and rattles of the man or boy;
What right, what true, what fit we justly call,
Let this be all my care—for this is all.

Our rural ancestors, with little blest,
Patient of labor when the end was rest,
Indulged the day that housed their annual grain,
With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.

'Tis strange the miser should his cares employ
To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy;
Is it less strange the prodigal should waste
His wealth to purchase what he ne'er can taste?

Attribution

Quotes and notes from Wikiquote: Alexander Pope (page history), available under CC BY-SA 4.0.