Alexander Pope

Know, Nature's children all divide her care, The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear.

Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.

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

Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;_x000D_ _x000D_ Wait the great teacher, Death, and God adore;_x000D_ _x000D_ What future bliss He gives not thee to know,_x000D_ _x000D_ But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.

At ev'ry word a reputation dies.

Strength of mind is exercise, not rest.

In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fix'd: 't is fix'd as in a frost; contracted all, retiring to the breast; but strength of mind is exercise, not rest.

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

Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart. One self-approving hour whole years outweighs Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas; And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels. In parts superior what advantage lies? Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise? 'T is but to know how little can be known; To see all others' faults, and feel our own.

Death, only death, can break the lasting chain; And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain

Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things To low ambition and the pride of kings. 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.

How loved, how honored once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot A heap of dust alone remains of thee 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Content if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view, The learn'd reflect on what before they knew.

Cursed be the verse, how well so e'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe.

See how the World its Veterans rewards!_x000D_ _x000D_ A Youth of Frolics, an old Age of Cards;_x000D_ _x000D_ Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,_x000D_ _x000D_ Young without Lovers, old without a Friend;_x000D_ _x000D_ A Fop their Passion, but their Prize a Sot;_x000D_ _x000D_ Alive ridiculous, and dead forgot.

The season when to come, and when to go, to sing, or cease to sing, we never know.

Dear, damned, distracting town, farewell! Thy fools no more I'll tease: This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, sleep at ease!

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.

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

There is a majesty in simplicity.

What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!