Quotes from Alexander Pope

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

Some praise at morning what they blame at night.

To happy convents, bosomed deep in vines, Where slumber abbots, purple as their wines.

And wine can of their wits the wise beguile, make the sage frolic, and the serious smile.

What some call health, if purchased by perpetual anxiety about diet, isn't much better than tedious disease

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

A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod;An honest man's the noblest work of God.

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

Let Sporus tremble—"What? that thing of silk,Sporus, that mere white curd of ass's milk?Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel?Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?"

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

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

Let spades be trumps! she said, and trumps they were.

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

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

What dire offense from amorous causes springs,What mighty contests rise from trivial things!

Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside,A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.

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

Tell me, Muse, of the man of many wiles.

Let such teach others who themselves excel,And censure freely who have written well.

The meeting points the sacred hair disseverFrom the fair head, forever, and forever!Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes,And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies.

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

Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,In action faithful, and in honor clear;Who broke no promise, served no private end,Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend.

Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law,Pleas'd with a rattle, tickled with a straw:Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight,A little louder, but as empty quite:Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage,And beads and prayer books are the toys of age!Pleas'd with this bauble still, as that before;Till tir'd he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er.

Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings;Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys,Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys.