Quotes by Alexander Pope

Philosophy, that leaned on Heaven before,Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more.

We may see the small Value God has for Riches, by the People he gives the

Know thy own point: this kind, this due degreeOf blindness, weakness, Heavn bestows on thee.

The pride of aiming at more knowledge, and pretending to more perfection, is the cause of Mans error and misery.

All this dread order break- for whom? for thee?Vile worm!- oh madness! pride! impiety!

Ye sacred nine

There is no study that is not capable of delighting us, after a little application to it.

Poetic justice, with her lifted scale,Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs,And solid pudding against empty praise. Here she beholds the chaos dark and deep,Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep,Till genial Jacob, or a warm third day,Call forth each mass, a poem, or a play:How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie,How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry.

Make use of every friend— and every foe.

Let Sporus tremble — What? that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white curd of asss milk?Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel?Who breaks a Butterfly upon a Wheel?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 neer tastes, and Beauty neer enjoys,

Inscriptions here of various Names I viewd,The greater part by hostile time subdud;Yet wide was spread their fame in ages past,And Poets once had promisd they should last.

Presumptuous Man! the reason wouldst thou find,Why formd so weak, so little, and so blind?First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,Why formd no weaker, blinder, and no less!Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are madeTaller or stronger than the weeds they shade?Or ask of yonder argent fields above,Why Joves Satellites are less than Jove?

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

For when success a lovers toil attends,Few ask, if fraud or force attaind his ends

Most critics, fond of subservient artstill make the whole depend upon a part.They talk of principles, but notions prizeAnd all to one loved folly sacrifice.

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

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

The difference is too nice - Where ends the virtue or begins the vice.

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

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