Quotes from Alexander Pope

Astrologers that future fates foreshow.

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 flow'rs shall rise,And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.

Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious air,Or laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy chair.

In quibbles angel and archangel join,And God the Father turns a school-divine.

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?

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

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

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

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

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.'Tis not enough no harshness gives offense;The sound must seem an echo to the sense.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

Die of a rose in aromatic pain?

Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.

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.

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

The wrath of Peleus' son, the direful springOf all the Grecian woes, O goddess sing!

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

I cannot sleep a wink.