QuoteProject
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!
Alexander Pope
ShareWTF𝕏

Interpretation

What this quote means

The quote reflects on how the value of poetry is heightened by its association with status and privilege.

In this quote, Alexander Pope critiques the perception of poetry and its worth depending on the reputation of the author rather than the quality of the work itself. He suggests that a piece of writing, regardless of its artistic merit, gains significance and appeal when it is affiliated with someone of high social standing, illustrating the disparity between genuine artistry and social elitism in the realm of literature.

Themes

PoetryArtStatusSocietyElitism

In practice

Example use cases

In a speech about the value of art, one could use this quote to highlight the influence of social status on artistic perception.

More from Alexander Pope

Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.
Alexander PopeRead
What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things.
Alexander PopeRead
Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare; And beauty draws us with a single hair.
Alexander PopeRead
An honest man's the noblest work of God.
Alexander PopeRead
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight;_x000D_ _x000D_ Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight.
Alexander PopeRead
Who breaks a butterfly on a wheel?
Alexander PopeRead

Similar quotes

We've got people looking at our seamy side and our sad side a lot of the time because that's easier. It's much more difficult to make a film about happiness with lots of jokes in it.
Emma ThompsonRead
The radio makes hideous sounds.
Bob DylanRead
The relationship between the public and the artist is complex and difficult to explain. There is a fine line between using this critical energy creatively and pandering to it.
Andy GoldsworthyRead
I view my hair and clothes as functional art.
Erykah BaduRead
What was any art but a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining elusive element which is life itself - life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.
Willa CatherRead
Like I can't cry for myself so I will let this song take all of the things inside I can't let anyone else see and offer it up, as if the sound were some kind of god, and my pain is some kind of sacrifice.
Robert SmithRead

A little wisdom, now and then

Subscribe for the occasional hand-picked quote. No noise.