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Alexander Pope

b: London, England, May 21, 1688

d: , May 30, 1744

Alexander Pope was an eighteenth-century English poet, best known for his satirical verse and for his translation of Homer. He is the third most frequently quoted writer in The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, after Shakespeare and Tennyson. Pope is famous for his use of the heroic couplet.

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"An't it please your Honour," quoth the Peasant,
"This same Desset is not so pleasant:
Give me again my hollow Tree,
A Crust of Bread, and Liberty."

"Get Money, money still!
And then let virtue follow, if she will."
This, this the saving doctrine preach'd to all,
From low St. James' up to high St. Paul.

"Live like yourself," was soon my lady's word,
And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board.

"Pray take them, Sir,--Enough's a Feast;
Eat some, and pocket up the rest."

"With every pleasing; every prudent part,
Say, What can Chloe want?"--she wants a heart.
She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought;
But never, never reach'd one generous thought.

'T is expectation makes a blessing dear.

'Tis all in vain to keep a constant pother
About one vice and fall into another.

'Tis education forms the common mind;
Just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined.

'Tis from high Life high Characters are drawn;
A Saint in Crape is twice a Saint in Lawn:
A Judge is just, a Chanc'llor juster still;
A Gowman learn'd; a Bishop what you will;
Wise if a minister; but if a King
More wise, more learn'd, more just, more ev'rything.

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But, of the two less dang'rous is th' offence
To tire our patience than mislead our sense.

'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call,
But the joint force and full result of all.

'Tis not enough your counsel still be true;
Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do.

'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?

'Tis thus the mercury of man is fix'd,
Strong grows the virtue with his nature mix'd.

'Tis true, no turbots dignify my boards,
But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords.

'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense
And splendor borrow all her rays from sense.

'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.

. . . th' approach of night
The skies yet blushing with departing light,
When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade,
And the low sun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.

A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead.

A brave man struggling in the storms of fate.

A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest.

A family is but too often a commonwealth of malignants.

A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind.

A fly, a grape-stone, or a hair can kill.

A heap of dust remains of thee;
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring;
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain;
And drinking largely sobers us again.

A man of business may talk of philosophy; a man who has none may practice it.

A man should never be ashamed to own he has been in the wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that he is wiser today than he was yesterday.

A minister, but still a man.

A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

A pear-tree planted nigh:
'Twas charg'd with fruit that made a goodly show,
And hung with dangling pears was every bough.

A perfect Judge will read each work of Wit
With the same spirit that its author writ:
Survey the Whole, nor seek slight faults to find
Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind.

A person should never be ashamed to own that he is wrong, which is but saying in other words that he is wiser today than he was yesterday.

A person who is too nice an observer of the business of the crowd, like one who is too curious in observing the labor of bees, will often be stung for his curiosity.

A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.

A spring there is, whose silver waters show
Clear as a glass the shining sands below:
A flowering lotos spreads its arms above,
Shades all the banks, and seems itself a grove.

A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;
At every word a reputation dies.

A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits.

Above all Greek, above all Roman fame.

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

Accept a miracle; instead of wit,--
See two dull lines by Stanhope's pencil writ.

Act well your part; there all the honor lies.

Age and want sit smiling at the gate.

Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep,
Who lost my heart while I preserv'd my sheep.

Ah, friend! to dazzle let the vain design;
To raise the thought and touch the heart be thine.

Ah, ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast,
Nor in the Critic let the Man be lost.

Alas! in truth, the man but chang'd his mind,
Perhaps was sick, in love, or had not dined.

Alas! the small discredit of a bribe
Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe.

Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.

All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul;
That chang'd thro' all, and yet in all same,
Great in the earth as in th' ethereal frame;
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees;
Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent,
Spreads undivided, operates unspent;
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart.

All chance, direction, which thou canst not see.

All crowd, who foremost shall be damn'd to fame.

All fame is foreign, but of true desert;
Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart:
One self approving hour whole years out-weighs
Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas;
And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels,
Than Caesar with a senate at his heels.

All fear, none aid you, and few understand.

All looks yellow to a jaundiced eye.

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;
And spite of pride, in erring reason's spite,
One truth is clear, Whatever is is right.

All other goods by fortune's hand are given,
A wife is the peculiar gift of heaven.

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

Amusement is the happiness of those who cannot think.

An excuse is worse and more terrible than a lie; for an excuse is a lie guarded.

An excuse is worse than a lie, for an excuse is a lie, guarded.

An honest man’s the noblest work of God.

An obstinate person does not hold opinions; they hold them.

And all Arabia breathes from yonder box.

And all who told it added something new, and all who heard it, made enlargements too.

And all your courtly civet cats can vent
Perfume to you, to me is excrement.

And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances and the public show.

And binding nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will.

And deal damnation round the land.

And each blasphemer quite escape the rod,
Because the insult's not on man, but God?

And empty heads console with empty sound.

And gentle Dulness ever loves a joke.

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

And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

And mistress of herself, though china fall.

And more than echoes talk along the walls.

And not a vanity is given in vain.

And soften'd sounds along the waters die:
Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play.

And solid pudding against empty praise.

And the touch'd needle trembles to the pole.

And things unknown proposed as things forgot.

And totter on in business to the last.

And truths divine came mended from that tongue.

And what is Fame? the Meanest have their Day,
The Greatest can but blaze, and pass away.

And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breath
Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death.

And you, my Critics! in the chequer'd shade,
Admire new light thro' holes yourselves have made.

And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but the truth in a masquerade.

Another yet the same.

Art still followed where Rome's eagles flew.

As man, perhaps, the moment of his breath,
Receives the lurking principle of death,
The younger disease, that must subdue at length,
Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength.

As on the smooth expanse of crystal lakes
The sinking stone at first a circle makes;
The trembling surface by the motion stirr'd,
Spreads in a second circle, then a third;
Wide, and more wide, the floating rings advance,
Fill all the watery plain, and to the margin dance.

As some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there.

As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake;
The centre mov'd, a circle straight succeeds,
Another still, and still another spreads.

Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.

Ask of the Learn'd the way? The Learn'd are blind;
This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind;
Some place the bliss in action, some in ease,
Those call it Pleasure, and Contentment these.

Ask you what provocation I have had?
The strong antipathy of good to bad.

Astrologers that future fates foreshow.

At every trifle scorn to take offence;
That always shows great pride or little sense.

At every trifle take offense, that always shows great pride or little sense.

At every word a reputation dies.

At length corruption, like a general flood
(So long by watchful ministers withstood),
Shall deluge all; and avarice, creeping on,
Spread like a low-born mist, and blot the sun.

Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true
But are not critics to their judgment too?

Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old.

Avoid Extremes; and shun the fault of such
Who still are pleas'd too little or too much.

Banished the doctor, and expell'd the friend.

Be niggards of advice on no pretense;
For the worst avarice is that of sense.

Be not the first by whom the new are tried, nor yet the last to lay the old aside.

Be not the first by whom the new are tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.

Be silent always, when you doubt your sense,
And speak, tho' sure, with seeming diffidence.

Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.

Beauty draws us with a single hair.

Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust,
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.

Behind every successful man is a surprised woman.

Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.

Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.

Blest paper-credit! last and best supply!
That lends corruption lighter wings to fly.

Bliss is the same, in subject or in king.

Bright as the sun her eyes the gazers strike,
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.

Bring, bring the madding Bay, the drunken wine;
The creeping, dirty, courtly Ivy join.

But all mankind’s concern is charity.

But as the world, harmoniously confused,
Where order in variety we see;
And where, tho' all things differ, all agree.

But blind to former as to future fate,
What mortal knows his pre-existent state?

But honest instinct comes a volunteer; Sure never to o'er-shoot, but just to hit, While still too wide or short in human wit.

But if the first Eve
Hard doom did receive
When only one apple had she,
What a punishment new
Must be found out for you,
Who eating hath robb'd the whole tree.

But just disease to luxury succeeds,
And ev'ry death its own avenger breeds.

But Satan now is wiser than of yore, and tempts by making rich, not making poor.

But see how oft ambition's aims are cross'd,
And chiefs content 'til all the prize is lost!

But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews;
Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse;
Sharp Boreas blows, and nature feels decay,
Time conquers all, and we must time obey.

But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat,
The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat,
To closer shades the panting flocks remove;
Ye gods! and is there no relief for love?

But sometimes virtue starves while vice is fed.
What then? Is the reward of virtue bread?

But thousands die without or this or that, die, and endow a college, or a cat: To some, indeed, Heaven grants the happier fate, Tenrich a bastard, or a son they hate.

But to the world no bugbear is so great,
As want of figure and a small estate.

But true expression, like th' unchanging sun,
Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon;
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.

But 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 wife these sland'rous words regard,
But curse the bones of ev'ry living bard.

But when to mischief mortals bend their will,
How soon they find fit instruments of ill.

But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain.
The wond'ring forests soon should dance again;
The moving mountains hear the powerful call.
And headlong streams hand listening in their fall!

But you with pleasure own your errors past,
And make each day a critic on the last.

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

By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd.
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd.

By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned; By strangers honored, and by strangers mourned.

By music minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.
. . . . Warriors she fires with animated sounds.
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds.

By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er the Elysian flow'rs;
By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow mead of asphodel.

Call, if you will, bad rhyming a disease,
It gives men happiness, or leaves them ease.

Calm, thinking villains, whom no faith could fix,
Of crooked counsels and dark politics.

Calmly he looked on either Life, and here
Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear:
From Nature's temp'rate feast rose satisfy'd,
Thank'd Heaven that he had lived, and that he died.

Cavil you may, but never criticise.

Chaos of thought and passion, all confused;
Still by himself abused and disabused;
Created half to rise, and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled;
The glory, jest and riddle of the world!

Charm strikes the sight, but merit wins the soul.

Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it
Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.

Coffee which makes the politician wise, and see through all things with his half-shut eyes.

Conceit is to nature what paint is to beauty; it is not only needless but impairs what it would improve.

Condemned whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more.

Condition, circumstance, is not the thing;
Bliss is the same in subject or in king.

Constant at Church and 'Change; his gains were sure;
His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.

Court-virtues bear, like gems, the highest rate,
Born where Heav'n influence scarce can penetrate.
In life's low vale, the soil the virtues like,
They please as beauties, here as wonders strike.

Curse on all laws but those which love has made.

Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear,
Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear!

Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And without sneering teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend,
A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend.

Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,
Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust.

Destroy his fib, or sophistry--in vain!
The creature's at his dirty work again.

Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven.

Die and endow a college or a cat.

Die of a rose in aromatic pain.

Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire.

Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.

Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.

Drink is the feast of reason and the flow of soul.

Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend,
With whom my muse began, with who shall end.

E'en copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,
The last and greatest art--the art to blot.

E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me.

Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables.

Education forms the common mind. Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined.

Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue
But like a shadow, proves the substance true. -

Envy, to which th' ignoble mind's a slave,
Is emulation in the learn'd or brave.

Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,
As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.

Ev'n copious Dryden, wanted, or forgot,
The last and greatest art, the art to blot.

Evasive of the bridal day, she gives fond hopes to all, and all with hope deceives.

Expression is the dress of thought, and still
Appears more decent as more suitable;
A vile conceit in pompous words express'd,
Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd.

Extremes in nature equal good produce;
Extremes in man concur to general use.

Eye nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies,
And catch the manners, living as they rise;
Laugh where we must, be candid where we can,
But vindicate the ways of God to man.

Faints into airs and languishes with pride;
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe,
Wrapt in a gown for sickness and for show.

Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare,
And beauty draws us with a single hair.

Far from gay cities and the ways of men.

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 al my care--for this is all.

Father of All! in every age,
In every clime ador'd,
By saint, by savage, and by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

Fear not the anger of the wise to raise;
Those best can fear reproof who merit praise.

Fine by defect, and delicately weak.

Fine sense and exalted sense are not half as useful as common sense. There are forty men of wit for one man of sense. And he that will carry nothing about him but gold will be every day at a loss for readier change.

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

Fix'd like a plant on his peculiar spot,
To draw nutrition, propagate and rot.

Fix'd to no spot is Happiness sincere;
'Tis nowhere to be found, or ev'rywhere;
'Tis never to be bought, but always free.

Fondly we think we honor merit then, When we but praise ourselves in other men.

Fool, 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam:
Know, sense, like charity, begins at home.

Fools admire, but men of sense approve.

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread

For fools admire, but me of sense approve.

For forms of government let fools contest;
Whate'er is best administer'd is best.

For her, the lilies hang their heads and die.

For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best,
Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.

For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight;
His can't be wrong whose life is in the right.

For virtue's self may too much zeal be had;
The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.

For which we bear to live, or dare to die.

For wit and judgment often are at strife,
Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife.

Form'd by thy converse, happily steer
From grave to gay, from lively to severe.

Fortune in men has some small diff'rence made,
One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade,
The cobbler apron'd, and the parson gown'd,
The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd.

Friend, for your epitaph I'm grieved,
Where still so much is said;
One half will never be believed,
The other never read.

From grave to gay, from lively to severe.

From hyperborean skies
Embodied dark, what clouds of vandals rise.

From loveless youth to unrespected age,
No passion gratified, except her rage,
So much the fury still outran the wit,
That pleasure miss'd her, and the scandal hit.

From the moment one sets up for an author, one must be treated as ceremoniously, that is as unfaithfully, "as a king's favorite or a king."

From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,
And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.

Gentle dullness ever loves a joke.

Get money, money still!
And then let virtue follow, if she will.

Get place and wealth, if possible, with grace;
If not, by any means get wealth and place.

Get your enemies to read your works in order to mend them, for your friend is so much your second self that he will judge too like you.

Give me again my hollow tree A crust of bread, and liberty!

Glory and gain the industrious tribe provoke; And gentle dullness ever loves a joke.

Good God! how often are we to die before we go quite off this stage? In every friend we lose a part of ourselves, and the best part.

Good sense which only is the gift of Heaven,
And though no science, fairly worth the seven.

Good-humor only teaches charms to last,
Still makes new conquests and maintains the past.

Good-nature and good-sense must ever join;
To err is human, to forgive, divine.

Grave authors say, and witty poets sing,
That honest wedlock is a glorious thing.

Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The suff'ring eye inverted nature sees,
Trees cut in statues, statues thick as trees;
With here a fountain never to be play'd,
And there a summer-house that knows no shade.

Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt,
And most contemptible to shun contempt.

Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength.

Hair tresses man's imperial race insnare,
And beauty draws us with a single hair.

Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.

Hark! the numbers soft and clear,
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise
And fill with spreading sounds the skies.

He best can paint them who shall feel them most.

He from thick films shall purge the visual ray,
And on the sightless eyeball pour the day.

He knows to live who keeps the middle state,
And neither leans on this side nor on that.

He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind.

He who tells a lie is not sensible of how great a task he undertakes; for he must be forced to invent twenty more to maintain that one.

He's armed without that's innocent within.

Health consists with Temperance alone.

Hear how the birds, on ev'ry blooming spray,
With joyous musick wake the dawning day.

Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid.

Heav'n forming each on other to depend,
A master, or a servant, or a friend,
Bids each on other for assistance call,
Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all.

Heaven forming each on other to depend,
A master, or a servant, or a friend,
Bids each on other for assistance call,
Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all.

Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate.

Heaven to mankind impartial we confess,
If all are equal in their happiness;
But equal wants this happiness increase,
All nature's difference keeps all nature's peace.

Hence the fool's paradise, the statesman's scheme,
The air-built castle, and the golden dream,
The maid's romantic wish, the chemist's flame,
And poet's vision of eternal fame.

Here blushing Flora paints th' enamell'd ground.

Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand,
And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.

Here files of pins extend their shining rows,
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux.

Here, thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey,
Dost sometimes counsel take--and sometimes tea.

Hew the block off, and get out the man.

Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise.

Histories are more full of examples of the fidelity of dogs than of friends.

Hoary whiskers and a forky beard.

Honor and shame from no condition rise; act well your part, there all the honor lies.

Honour and shame from no condition rise;
Act well your part, there all the honour lies.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast,
Man never is, but always to be blest.

Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.

How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

How index-learning turns no student pale,
Yet holds the eel of science by the tale.

How instinct varies in the grov'lling swine,
Compar'd, half-reasoning elephant, with thine!
'Twixt that and reason what a nice barrier!
Forever sep'rate, yet forever near!

How prone to doubt, how cautious are the wise!

How shall I lose the sin yet keep the sense,
And love th' offender, yet detest the offence?

How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, and love the offender, yet detest the offence?

How the wit brightens! how the style refines!

How, sir! not damn the sharper, but the dice?

I am his Highness dog at Kew; pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

I am his Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

I begin where most people end, with a full conviction of the emptiness of all sorts of ambition, and the unsatisfactory nature of all human pleasures.

I find myself... hoping a total end of all the unhappy divisions of mankind by party-spirit, which at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.

I have more zeal than wit.

I lose my patience, and I own it too,
When works are censur'd, not as bad but new;
While if our Elders break all reason's laws,
These fools demand not pardon but Applause.

I never knew any man in my life who could not bear
another's misfortunes perfectly like a Christian.

I never knew any many in my life, who could not bear another's misfortunes perfectly like a Christian.

I was not born for courts and great affairs, but I pay my debts, believe and say my prayers.

I was not born for Courts or great affairs;
I pay my debts, believe, and say my pray'rs.

I'll print it,
And shame the fools.

If a man's character is to be abused there's nobody like a relative to do the business.

If faith itself has different dresses worn,
What wonder modes in wit should take their turn?

If I am right, Thy grace impart,
Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong, O teach my heart
To find that better way!

If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shin'd,
The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind:
Or, ravish'd with the whistling of a name,
See Cromwell, damn'd to everlasting fame.

If that's art, I'm a Hottentot!

If to her share some female errors fall
Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.

If you only have a hammer, you tend to see every problem as a nail.

If, presume not to God to scan; The proper study of Mankind is Man. Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state, a being darkly wise, and rudely great.

In a sadly pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain.

In adamantine chains shall Death be bound,
And Hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound.

In cold December fragrant chaplets blow,
And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.

In every work regard the writer's End,
Since none can compass more than they intend;
And if the means be just, the conduct true,
Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.

In Faith and Hope the world will disagree,
But all mankind's concern is charity.

In genial spring, beneath the quivering shade,
Where cooling vapors breathe along the mead,
The patient fisher takes his silent stand,
Intent, his angle trembling in his hand;
With looks unmov'd, he hopes the scaly breed,
And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed.

In lazy Apathy let Stoics boast, Their Virtue fix'd, 'tis fixed as in a frost.

In men, we various ruling passions find;
In women two almost divide the kind;
Those only fix'd, they first or last obey.
The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.

In pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies;
All quit their sphere and rush into the skies.
Pride still is aiming at the bless'd abodes,
Men would be angels, angels would be gods.

In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true
From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?

In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung.

In vain sedate reflections we would make
When half our knowledge we must snatch, not take.

In various talk th' instructive hours they past,
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last;
One speaks the glory of the British queen,
And one describes a charming Indian screen;
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;
At every word a reputation dies.

In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold:
Alike fantastic, if too new, or old:
Be not the first by whom the new are tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.

Intimacy is the exchange of vulnerabilities.

Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat?
Loves of his own, and raptures swell the note.

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?

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

It is the rust we value, not the gold;
Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old.

It is with narrow-souled people as with narrow-necked bottles; the less they have in them, the more noise they make in pouring out.

It is with our judgments as with our watches: no two go just alike, yet each believes his own.

Judge not of actions by their mere effect;
Dive to the centre, and the cause detect;
Great deeds from meanest springs may take their course,
And smallest virtues from a mighty source.

Judges and senates have been bought for gold;
Esteem and love were never to be sold.

Just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined.

Just disease to luxury succeeds.

Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,
A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw;
The gnomes direct, to every atom just,
The pungent grains of titillating dust,
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows,
And the high dome re-echoes to his nose.

Kneller, by Heaven and not a master taught
Whose art was nature, and whose pictures thought,
. . . . Living great Nature fear'd he might outvie
Her works; and dying, fears herself may die.

Know then this truth (enough for man to know)
"Virtue alone is happiness below."

Know then this truth, enough for man to know virtue alone is happiness below.

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; The proper study of Mankind is Man. (from 'An Essay on Man, 1733)

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan;
The proper study of mankind is man.

Know then, unnumber'd Spirits round thee fly,
The light Militia of the lower sky.

Ladies, like variegated tulips, show
'Tis to their changes half their charms we owe.

Laugh at your friends, and if your friends are sore;
So much the better, you may laugh the more.

Laugh where we must, be candid where we can,
But vindicate the ways of God to man.

Learn from the beasts the physic of the field.

Learn from the birds what food the thickets yield;
Learn from the beasts the physic of the field;
The arts of building from the bee receive;
Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave.

Learn of the little nautilus to sail,
Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale.

Learn to live well, or fairly make your will;
You've played, and loved, and ate, and drank your fill.
Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age
Comes titt'ring on, and shoves you from the stage.

Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease,
Whom Folly pleases, and whose Follies please.

Led by the light of the Maeonian star.

Lely on animated canvas stole
The sleepy eye, that spoke the melting soul.

Let humble Allen, with an awkward shame,
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it Fame.

Let Joy or Ease, let Affluence or Content,
And the gay conscience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.

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.

Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from every thorn.

Let sinful bachelors their woes deplore; full well they merit all they feel, and more: unaw by precepts, human or divine, like birds and beasts, promiscuously they join.

Let those teach others who themselves excel; and censure freely, who have written well.

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 might maze! but not without a plan.

Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,
Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heav'n.

Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne,
They rise, they break, and to that sea return.

Like Cato, give his little senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause.

Like doctors thus, when much dispute has past,
We find our tenets just the same at last.

Like following life through creatures you dissect,
You lose it in the moment you detect.

Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die.

Line after line my gushing eye o'erflow,
Led thro' a said variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!

Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored; dies before thy uncreating word: thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; and universal darkness buries all.

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind.

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.

Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.

Love, Hope, and Joy, fair pleasure's smiling train,
Hate, Fear, and Grief, the family of pain,
These mix'd with art, and to due bounds confin'd
Make and maintain the balance of the mind.

Lull'd by soft zephyrs thro' the broken pane.

Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain; awake but one, and in, what myriads rise!

Man never is, but always to be, blest.

Manners with Fortunes, Humours turn with Climes,
Tenets with Books, and Principles with Times.

Many men have been capable of doing a wise thing, more a cunning thing, but very few a generous thing.

Mark what unvary'd laws preserve each state,
Laws wise as Nature, and as fixed as Fate.

Me let the tender office long engage
To rock the cradle of reposing age;
With lenient arts extend a mother's breath,
Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death;
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye!
And keep awhile one parent from the sky.

Men dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake!

Men must be taught as if you taught them not,
And things unknown propos'd as things forgot.

Men some to business, some to pleasure take;
But every woman is at heart a rake;
Men some to quiet, some to public strife;
But every lady would be queen for life.

Men would be angels, angels would be gods.

Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; but every woman is at heart a rake.

Most authors steal their works, or buy.

Most women have no characters at all.

Music resembles poetry: in each
Are nameless graces which no methods teach
And which a master-hand alone can reach.

Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night:
God said, "Let Newton be!" and all was light.

Nature made every fop to plague his brother,
Just as one beauty mortifies another.

Never elated when someone's oppressed, never dejected when another one's blessed.

Next o'er his books his eyes began to roll,
In pleasing memory of all he stole.

No craving void left aching in the soul.

No creature smarts so little as a fool.

No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings,
Shall, list'ning, in mid-air suspend their wings.

No more was seen the human form divine.

No one should be ashamed to admit they are wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that they are wiser today than they were yesterday.

No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n,
Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n;
But such plain roofs as Piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise.

No woman ever hates a man for being in love with her, but many a woman hates a man for being a friend to her.

Nor fame I slight, nor for her favors call;
She comes unlooked for, if she comes at all.

Nor in the critic let the man be lost.

Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations
By wits, than critics in as wrong quotations.

Not always actions show the man; we find
Who does a kindness is not therefore kind.

Not chaos-like together crush'd and bruis'd,
But, as the world, harmoniously confused:
Where order in variety we see,
And where tho' all things differ, all agree.

Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly,
When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky;
Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves,
When thro' the clouds he drives the trembling doves.

Not to go back is somewhat to advance, and men must walk, at least, before they dance.

Nothing is more certain than much of the force; as well as grace, of arguments or instructions depends their conciseness.

Now scantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine;
A small Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd,
And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

O Death, all eloquent! you only prove
What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.

O let us still the secret joy partake,
To follow virtue even for virtue's sake.

O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize,
And make my tongue victorious as her eyes.

O name forever sad! forever dear!
Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.

O! blessed with temper, whose unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day;
She who can own a sister's charms, or hear
Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear;
She who ne'er answers till a husband cools,
Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules.
Charms by accepting, by submitting sways,
Yet has her humour most when she obeys.

Obliged by hunger and request of friends.

Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis true the hardest science to forget.

Of darkness visible so much be lent, as half to show, half veil, the deep intent.

Of fight or fly,
This choice is left ye, to resist or die.

Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild; In Wit a man; Simplicity, a child.

Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild;
In Wit a Man: Simplicity, a child.

Offend her, and she knows not to forgive;
Oblige here, and she'll hate you while you live.

Oft in dreams invention we bestow to change a flounce or add a furbelow.

Oh happiness! our being's end and aim!
Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! whate'er thy name;
That something still which prompts th' eternal sigh,
For which we bear to live, or dare to die.

Oh her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
Which Jews might kiss and Infidels adore.

Oh! be thou blest with all that Heaven can send,
Long health, long youth, long pleasure--and a friend.

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.

Oh! let me live my own, and die so too!
(To live and die is all I have to do:)
Maintain a poet's dignity and ease,
And see what friends, and read what books I please.

Oh, blindness to the future! kindly giv'n,
That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven.

Oh, sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise.
By mountains pil'd on mountains to the skies?
Heav'n still with laughter the vain toil surveys,
And buries madmen in the heaps they raise.

Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?
In living medals see her wars enroll'd,
And vanquished realms supply recording gild?

Old politicians chew on wisdom past,
And totter on in business to the last.

On life's vast ocean diversely we sail,
Reason the card, but passion is the gale.

On life's vast ocean diversely we sail. Reasons the card, but passion the gale.

On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe,
Wrapt in a gown, for sickness and show.

On wrongs swift vengeance waits.

Once (says an Author; where, I need not say)
Two Trav'lers found an Oyster in their way;
Both fierce, both hungry; the dispute grew strong,
While Scale in hand Dame Justice pass'd along.
Before her each with clamour pleads the Laws.
Explain'd the matter, and would win the cause,
Dame Justice weighing long the doubtful Right,
Takes, open, swallows it, before their sight.
The cause of strife remov'd so rarely well,
"There take" (says Justice), "take ye each a shell.
We thrive at Westminster on Fools like you:
'Twas a fat oyster--live in peace--Adieu."

One science only will one genius fit,
So vast is art, so narrow human wit.

One science only will one genius fit; so vast is art, so narrow human wit.

One self-approving hour whole years outweighs.

One solid dish his week-day meal affords,
An added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's.

One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight;
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight.

One who is too wise an observer of the business of others, like one who is too curious in observing the labor of bees, will often be stung for his curiosity.

Or ask of yonder argent fields above
Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove.

Or looks on heav'n with more than mortal eyes,
Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies,
Amid her kindred stars familiar roam,
Survey the region, and confess her home.

Or will you think, my friend, your bus'ness done
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one.

Order is Heaven's first law; and this confess,
Some are and must be greater than the rest.

Others import yet nobler arts from France,
Teach kings to fiddle, and make senates dance.

Our grandsire, Adam, ere of Eve possesst,
Alone, and e'en in Paradise unblest,
With mournful looks the blissful scenes survey'd,
And wander'd in the solitary shade.
The Maker say, took pity, and bestow'd
Woman, the last, the best reserv'd of God.

Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for a time, leave us the weaker ever after.

Our plenteous streams a various race supply,
The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye,
The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd,
The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold,
Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains,
And pikes, the tyrants of the wat'ry plains.

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

Party-spirit, which at best is but the madness of many, for the gain of a few.

Passions are the gales of life.

Piecemeal they win this acre first then, that,
Glean on, and gather up the whole estate.

Placed on this isthmus of a middle state.

Pleas'd look forward, pleas'd to look behind, And count each birthday with a grateful mind.

Pleas'd to the last he crops the flowery food,
And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.

Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.

Pleasures are ever in our hands or eyes;
And when in act they cease, in prospect rise.

Poets heap virtues, painters gems, at will,
And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill.

Poets like painters, thus unskill'd to trace
The naked nature and the living grace,
With gold and jewels cover every part,
And hide with ornaments their want of art.

Pour the full tide of eloquence along,
Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong.

Praise undeserved is scandal in disguise.

Praise undeserved, is satire in disguise.

Pretty! in amber to observe the forms
Of hairs, of straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there.

Pride is still aiming at the best houses: Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell; aspiring to be angels men rebel.

Proud Nimrod first the bloody chase began,
A mighty hunter, and his prey was man.

Pursue the triumph and partake the gale?

Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense,
Lie in three words,--health, peace, and competence.

Reason, however able, cool at best,
Cares not for service, or but serves when prest,
Stays till we call, and then not often near.

Religion, blushing, veils her sacred fires,
And unawares Morality expires.

Remembrance and reflection how allied. What thin partitions divides sense from thought.

Riches, like insects, when conceal'd they lie,
Wait but for wings, and in their season fly.
Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,
Sees but a backward steward for the poor;
This year a reservoir, to keep and spare;
The next a fountain, spouting thro' his heir
In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst,
And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.

Round broken columns clasping ivy twin'd.

Satan is wiser now than before, and tempts by making rich instead of poor.

Satire or sense, alas! Can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet
To run amuck and tilt at all I meet.

Say first, of God above or man below,
What can we reason but from what we know?

Say, shall my little bark attendant sail,
Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale?

Say, will the falcon, stooping from above,
Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove?
Admires the jay the insect's gilded wings?
Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings?

Search then the ruling passion; there alone,
The wild are constant, and the cunning known;
The fool consistent, and the false sincere;
Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here.

Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise;
My footstool Earth, my canopy the skies.

See Christians, Jews, one heavy sabbath keep,
And all the western world believe and sleep.

See Cromwell, damn’d to everlasting fame!

See dying vegetables life sustain,
See life dissolving vegetate again;
All forms that perish other forms supply;
(By turns we catch the vital breath and die.)

See how the World its Veterans rewards!
A Youth of Frolics, an old Age of Cards;
Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,
Young without Lovers, old without a Friend;
A Fop their Passion, but their Prize a Sot;
Alive ridiculous, and dead forgot.

See my lips tremble and my eyeballs roll,
Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!

See plastic Nature working to this end,
The single atoms each to other tend,
Attract, attracted to, the next in place
Form'd and impell'd its neighbor to embrace.

See sin in state, majestically drunk;
Proud as a peeress, prouder as a punk.

See the wild Waste of all-devouring years!
How Rome her own sad Sepulchre appears,
With nodding arches, broken temples spread!
The very Tombs now vanish'd like their dead!

See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs,
And mounts exulting on triumphant wings:
Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,
Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.

Shakspeare (whom you and every playhouse bill
Style the divine! the matchless! what you will),
For gain, not glory, wing'd his roving flight,
And grew immortal in his own despite.

Shall I, like Curtius, desperate in my zeal,
O'er head and ears plunge for the common weal?
Or rob Rome's ancient geese of all their glories,
And cackling save the monarchies of Tories?

She saw her sons with purple death expire,
Her sacred domes involved in rolling fire,
A dreadful series of intestine wars,
Inglorious triumphs and dishonest scars.

She went from opera, park, assembly, play,
To morning walks, and prayers three hours a day.
To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea,
To muse, and spill her solitary tea,
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon.

She who ne'er answers till a husband cools,
Or, if she rules him, never shews she rules;
Charms by accepting, by submitting sways,
Yet has her humour most when she obeys.

Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd I said;
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.

Silence that spoke, and eloquence of eyes.

Silence, ye wolves! While Ralph to Cynthia howls,
And makes night hideous;--Answer him, ye owls!

Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain,
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane.

Slave to no sect, who takes no private road,
But looks through nature up to nature's God.

So by false learning is food sense defac'd;
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools.

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 modern 'pothecaries, taught the art
By doctor's bills to play the doctor's part,
Bold in the practice of mistaken rules,
Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.

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

So obliging that he ne'er obliged.

So perish all whose breast ne'er learned to glow
For other's good or melt at other's woe.

So upright Quakers please both man and God.

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

Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows.

Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe,
That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath.

Solid pudding against empty praise.

Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then;
Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.

Some men's wit is like a dark lantern, which serves their own turn and guides them their own way, but is never known (according to the Scripture phrase) either to shine forth before men, or to glorify their Father in heaven.

Some old men, continually praise the time of their youth. In fact, you would almost think that there were no fools in their days, but unluckily they themselves are left as an example.

Some people will never learn anything, for this reason, because they understand everything too soon.

Some place the bliss in action, some in ease,
Those call it pleasure, and contentment these.

Some positive persisting fops we know,
Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so;
But you with pleasure own your errors past,
And make each day a critique on the last.

Some praise at morning what they blame at night,
But always think the last opinion right.

Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought,
"I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat;
Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice--
And am so clear too of all other vice."

Some to church repair, not for the doctrine, but the music there.

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.

Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.

Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.

Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear;
Who broke no promise, served no private end,
Who gained no title, and who lost no friend,
Ennobled by himself, by all approved,
And praised, unenvied, by the Muse he loved.

Stay awhile that we may make an end the sooner.

Strength of mind is exercise, not rest.

Stript to the naked soul.

Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style.
Amaze th' learn'd, and make the learned smile.

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

Sure of their qualities and demanding praise, more go to ruined fortunes than are raised.

Teach me to feel another's woe. To hide the fault I see: That the mercy I show to others; that mercy also show to me.

Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise?
'Tis but to know how little can be known,
To see all other's faults, and feel our own.

Tell me, my soul! can this be death?

Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss.

Th' embroider'd suit at least he deem'd his prey;
That suit an unpaid tailor snatched away.

Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind!

That character in conversation which commonly passes for agreeable is made up of civility and falsehood.

That virtue only makes our bliss below,
And all our knowledge is ourselves to know.

The balmy zephyrs, silent since her death,
Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath.

The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown,
Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown,
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year.

The blest to-day is as completely so,
As who began a thousand years ago.

The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,
with loads of learned lumber in his head.

The cabinets of the sick and the closets of the dead have been ransacked to publish private letters and divulge to all mankind the most secret sentiments of friendship.

The character of covetousness, is what a man generally acquires more through some niggardliness or ill grace in little and inconsiderable things, than in expenses of any consequence.

The dances ended, all the fairy train
For pinks and daisies search'd the flow'ry plain.

The difference is as great between
The optics seeing as the objects seen.
All manners take a tincture from our own;
Or come discolor'd through out passions shown;
Or fancy's beam enlarges, multiplies,
Contracts, inverts, and gives ten thousand dyes.

The doubtful beam long nods from side to side.

The enormous faith of many made for one.

The flying rumours gather'd as the roll'd,
Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told;
And all who told it added something new.
And all who heard it made enlargements too.

The fool is happy that he knows no more.

The garlands fade, the vows are worn away;
So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.

The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire,
And taught the world with reason to admire.

The glorious fault of angels and of gods.

The gracious Dew of Pulpit Eloquence,
And all the well-whip'd Cream of Courtly Sense.

The grave unites; where e'en the great find rest,
And blended lie th' oppressor and th' oppressed!

The Great First Cause, least understood.

The greatest advantage I know of being thought a wit by the world is that it gives one the greater freedom of playing the fool.

The heart resolves this matter in a trice,
"Men only feel the smart, but not the vice."

The hidden harmony is better than the obvious.

The hog that ploughs not, not obeys thy call,
Lives on the labours of this lord of all.

The hour conceal'd and so remote the fear,
Death still draws nearer, never seeming near.

The hungry judges soon the sentence sign,
And wretches hang that jurymen may dine.

The learn'd reflect on what before they knew.

The line too labours, and the words move slow.

The man that loves and laughs must sure do well.

The mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease.

The modest fan was lifted up no more, and virgins smiled at what they blushed before.

The mouse that always trusts to one poor hole,
Can never be a mouse of any soul.

The people's voice is odd,
It is, and it is not, the voice of God.

The public is a fool.

The pure and noble, the graceful and dignified, simplicity of language is nowhere in such perfection as in the Scriptures and Homer. The whole book of Job, with regard both to sublimity of thought and morality, exceeds, beyond all comparison, the most noble parts of Homer.

The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.

The rest on outside merit but presume,
Or serve (like other fools) to fill a room.

The right divine of kings to govern wrong.

The ruling passion, be it what it will, The ruling passion conquers reason still.

The ruling passion, be it what it will,
The ruling passion conquers reason still.

The sacred lust of twice ten hundred years.

The same ambition can destroy or save, and make a patriot as it makes a knave.

The scripture in times of disputes is like an open town in times of war, which serves in differently the occasions of both parties.

The soul's calm sunshine and the heartfelt joy,
Is virtue's prize.

The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

The sound must seem an echo to the sense.

The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine!
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.

The starving chemist in his golden views
Supremely blest.

The stoic husband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a sage, 'tis true,
And lov'd his country.

The varying verse, the full resounding line,
The long majestic march, and energy divine.

The villain's censure is extorted praise.

The Virtuoso of Shadwell does not maintain his character with equal strength to the end, and this was that writer's general fault. Wycherley used to say of him that "he knew how to start a fool very well, but that he was never able to run him down."

The vulgar boil, the learned roast, an egg.

The world recedes; it disappears;
Heav'n opens on my eyes; my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?

The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.

The zeal of fools offends at any time.

Thee too, my Paridel! she mark'd thee there,
Stretch'd on the rack of a too easy chair,
And heard thy everlasting yarn confess
The Pains and Penalties of Idleness.

Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere;
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast
Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost,
For after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die;
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,
This Lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame,
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.

Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes,
And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies,
Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are cast,
When husbands, or when lap dogs, breathe their last;
Or when rich China vessels fallen, from high,
In glittering dust and painted fragments lie.

Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me, just at dinner-time.

Then marble, soften'd into life, grew warm.

Then rose the seed of Chaos, and of Night,
To blot out order and extinguish light.

Then sing by turns, by turns the Muses sing;
Now hawthorns blossom.

Then take him to develop, if you can
And hew the bock off, and get out the man.

There Affectation, with a sickly mien,
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen.

There are, to whom my satire seems too bold;
Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough,
And something said of Chartres much too rough.

There goes a saying, and 'twas shrewdly said, Old fish at table, but young flesh in bed.

There is a certain majesty in simplicity which is far above all the quaintness of wit.

There is but one way I know of conversing safely with all men; that is, not by concealing what we say or do, but by saying or doing nothing that deserves to be concealed.

There is nothing that is meritorious but virtue and friendship; and indeed friendship itself is only a part of virtue.

There never was any party, faction, sect, or cabal whatsoever, in which the most ignorant were not the most violent; for a bee is not a busier animal than a blockhead.

There should be, methinks, as little merit in loving a woman for her beauty as in loving a man for his prosperity; both being equally subject to change.

There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl
The feast of reason and the flow of soul.

There still remains to mortify a wit
The many-headed monster of the pit.

There swims no goose so gray, but soon or late
She finds some honest gander for her mate.

They dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake.

This long disease, my life.

Those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.

Those oft are stratagems which errors seem,
Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.

Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

Thus sung the shepherds till th' approach of night,
The skies yet blushing with departing light,
When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade,
And the low sun had lengthened every shade.

Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools and pageant of a day;
So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow
For others' good, or melt at others' woe.

Thus when we view some well-proportion'd dome, . . . .
No single parts unequally surprise,
All comes united to th' admiring eyes.

Till Peter's keys come christen'd Jove adorn,
And Pan to Moses lends his Pagan born.

Till tired, he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er.

Time conquers all, and we must time obey.

Tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er.

To balance Fortune by a just expense,
Join with Economy, Magnificence.

To be angry is to revenge the faults of others on ourselves.

To be, contents his natural desire,
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
Go wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense
Weigh thy opinion against Providence.

To buy books only because they were published by an eminent printer is much as if a man should buy clothes that did not fit him, only because made by some famous tailor.

To dazzle let the vain design,
To raise the thought and touch the heart, be thine!

To err is human, to forgive divine.

To happy convents, bosom'd deep in vines,
Where slumber abbots purple as their wines.

To hide the fault I see:
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.

To Him no high, no low, no great, no small;
He fills, He bounds, connects and equals all!

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

To observations which ourselves we make,
We grow more partial for th' observer's sake.

To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite,
Who never mentions hell to ears polite.

To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art! draw near!
Here lies the friend most lov'd, the son most dear;
Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide,
Or gave his father grief but when he died.

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 scene, and be what they behold--
For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage.

To what base ends, and by what abject ways,
Are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise!

Together let us beat this ample field,
Try that the open, what the covert yield.

Trade it may help, society extend,
But lures the Pirate, ant corrupts the friend:
It raises armies in a nation's aid,
But bribes a senate, and the land's betray'd.

Trifles themselves are elegant in him.

True disputants are like true sportsman: their whole delight is in the pursuit.

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.

True friendship's laws are by this rule express'd, Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.

True politeness consists in being easy one's self, and in making every one about one as easy as one can.

True wit is nature to advantage dress'd,
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed.

True, conscious Honour is to feel no sin,
He's arm'd without that's innocent within;
Be this thy screen, and this thy wall of Brass.

Trust not yourself; but your defects to know,
Make use of ev'ry friend--and ev'ry foe.

Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land?
All fear, none aid you, and few understand.

Two purposes in human nature rule. Self-love to urge, and reason to restrain.

Unblemish'd let me live or die unknown;
Oh, grant an honest fame, or grant me none!

Under this marble, or under this sill,
Or under this turf, or e'en what they will,
Whatever an heir, or a friend in his stead,
Or any good creature shall lay o'er my head,
Lies one who ne'er car'd, and still cares not a pin
What they said or may say of the mortal within;
But who, living and dying, serene, still and free,
Trusts in God that as well as he was he shall be.

Unthought-of Frailties cheat us in the Wise.

Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride!
They had no poet, and they died.

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
As to be hated need but to be seen;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

Virtue alone is happiness below.

Virtue may choose the high or low degree,
'Tis just alike to virtue, and to me;
Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king,
She's still the same belov'd, contented thing.

Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour,
Content to dwell in decencies forever.

Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast;
But shall the dignity of vice be lost?

Virtuous and vicious every man must be,
Few in the extreme, but all in the degree.

Virtuous and vicious everyone must be; few in extremes, but all in degree.

Vital spark of heav'nly flame! Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame! Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying! . . . Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister Spirit, come away!

Vital spark of heavenly flame!

Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees.

We conquered France, but felt our captive's charms,
Her arts victorious triumph'd o'er our arms.

We think our Fathers Fools, so wise we grow;
Our wiser Sons, no doubt will think us so.

Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffus'd,
As poison heals, in just proportion us'd.

Well, if our author in the wife offends
He has a husband that will make amends;
He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving,
And sure such kind good creatures may be living.

What beck'ning ghost along the moonlight shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?

What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards?
Alas! not all the blood, of all the Howards.

What Conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do;
This teach me more than Hell to shun,
That more than Heav'n pursue.

What dire Offence from am'rous Causes springs,
What mighty Contests rise from trivial Things.

What ill-starr'd rage
Divides a friendship long confirm'd by age?

What is every year of a wise man's life but a censure or critic on the past?

What mighty contests rise from trivial things.

What nature wants, commodious gold bestows;
'Tis thus we cut the bread another sows.

What riches give us let us then inquire:
Meat, fire, and clothes. What more? Meat, clothes, and fire. Is this too little?

What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.

What then remains, but well our power to use,
And keep good-humor still whate'er we lose?
And trust me, dear, good-humor can prevail,
When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.

What thin partitions sense from thought divide.

What Tully said of war may be applied to disputing: "It should be always so managed as to remember that the only true end of it is peace." But generally true disputants are like true sportsmen,--their whole delight is in the pursuit; and the disputant no more cares for the truth than the sportsman for the hare.

What woful stuff this madrigal would be
In some starv'd hackney sonneteer or me!
But let a lord once own the happy lines,
How the Wit brightens! how the Style refines!

What's fame? a fancy'd life in others' breath.
A thing beyond us, e'en before our death.

Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf,
Not one will change his neighbor with himself.

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

When I die, I should be ashamed to leave enough to build me a monument if there were a wanting friend above ground. I would enjoy the pleasure of what I give by giving it alive and seeing another enjoy it.

When much dispute has past,
We find our tenets just the same as last.

When rumors increase, and when there is an abundance of noise and clamor, believe the second report.

When the brisk minor pants for twenty-one.

When to mischief mortals bend their will,
How soon they find it instruments of ill.

When truth or virtue an affront endures,
Th' affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours.

When two people compliment each other with the choice of anything, each of them generally gets that which he likes least.

When we are young, we are slavishly employed in procuring something whereby we may live comfortably when we grow old; and when we are old, we perceive it is too late to live as we proposed.

When weary reapers quit the sultry field,
and, crown'd with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield.

Where are those troops of poor, that throng'd of yore
The good old landlord's hospitable door?

Where grows?--where grows it not? If vain our toil,
We ought to blame the culture, not the soil.

Where London's column, pointing at the skies,
Like a tall bully, lifts the head and lies.

Where round some mould'ring tow'r pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.

Where stray ye, Muses! in what lawn or grove,
. . . .
In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides,
Or else where Cam his winding vales divides?

Where'er you walk cool gales shall fan the glade,
Trees where you sit shall crowd into a shade.
Where'er you tread the blushing flowers shall rise,
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.

Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it,
If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.

Whether the darken'd room to muse invite,
Or whiten'd wall provoke the skew'r to write;
In durance, exite, Bedlam, or the Mint,
Like Lee or Budgel I will rhyme and print.

Whether with Reason, or with Instinct blest,
Know, all enjoy that pow'r which suits them best.

While pensive poets painful vigils keep,
Sleepless themselves to give their readers sleep.

Who breaks a butterfly on a wheel?

Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame,
Will never mark the marble with his Name.

Who combats bravely is not therefore brave:
He dreads a death-bed like the meanest slave.

Who dare to love their country, and be poor.

Who finds not Providence all good and wise,
Alike in what it gives, and what denies.

Who know but He, whose hand the lightning forms,
Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms,
Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind.

Who pants for glory, finds but short repose;
A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.

Who reasons wisely is not therefore wise;
His pride in reasoning, not in acting lies.

Who says in verse what others say in prose.

Who sees pale Mammom pine amidst his store,
Sees but a backward steward for the poor.

Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.

Who shall decide when doctors disagree,
And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?

Who shall decide when doctors disagree?

Who thinks that fortune cannot change her mind,
Prepares a dreadful just for all mankind.
And who stands safest? Tell me, is it he
That spreads and swells in puff'd prosperity,
Or bless'd with little, whose preventing care
In peace provides fit arms against a war?

Who would not praise Patrico's high desert,
His hand unstain'd, his uncorrupted heart,
His comprehensive head? all interests weigh'd,
All Europe sav'd, yet Britain not betray'd.

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.

Why did I write? what sin to me unknown
Dipt me in ink, my parent', or my own?
As yet a child, not yet a fool to fame,
I lisp'd in number, for the numbers came.

Why has not man a microscopic eye?
For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly.
Say, what the use, were finer optics giv'n,
T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n?

Why will you break the Sabbath of my days?
Now sick alike of Envy and of Praise.

With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.

With him most authors steal their works, or buy; Garth did not write his own Dispensary.

With sharpen'd sight pale Antiquaries pore,
Th' inscription value, but the rust adore.
This the blue varnish, that the green endears;
The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years.

With too much Quickness ever to be taught;
With too much Thinking to have common Thought.

Woman's at best a contradiction still.

Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.

Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow;
The rest is all but leather and prunello.

Wretches hang that jurymen may dine.

Ye flowers that drop, forsaken by the spring,
Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing,
Ye trees that fade, when Autumn heats remove,
Say, is not absence death to those who love?

Ye gods, annihilate but space and time,
And make two lovers happy.

Ye little stars, hide your diminish'd rays.

Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess . . .
Bear me, O bear me to sequestered scenes,
The bow'ry mazes, and surrounding greens.

Years following years steal something ev'ry day.
At last they steal us from ourselves away.

Yet eat in dreams, the custard of the day.

Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dressed,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast;
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow.

Yet still a sad, good Christian at the heart.

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come;
Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.

You eat, in dreams, the custard of the day.

You purchase pain with all that joy can give,
And die of nothing but a rage to live.

Your scene precariously subsists too long,
On French translation and Italian song.
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage;
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage.

Zeal then, not charity, became the guide.