Alexander Pope

Here am I, dying of a hundred good symptoms.

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

Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride! They had no poet, and they died. In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled! They had no poet, and are dead.

Let such, such only tread this sacred floor, Who dare to love their country and be poor.

There, take (says Justice), take ye each a shell: We thrive at Westminster on fools like you; 'T was a fat oyster,—live in peace,—adieu.

I have nothing to say for rhyme, but that I doubt whether a poem can support itself without it, in our language; unless it be stiffened with such strange words, as are likely to destroy our language itself.

For he lives twice who can at once employ The present well, and e'en the past enjoy.

Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild; In Wit, a Man; Simplicity, a Child.

Good God! how often are we to die before we go quite off this stage? in every friend we lose a part of ourselves, and the best part.

So unaffected, so compos'd a mind; So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refin'd; Heav'n, as its purest gold, by tortures try'd; The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.

Let me tell you I am better acquainted with you for a long Absence, as men are with themselves for a long affliction: Absence does but hold off a friend, to make one see him the truer.

"Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed" was the ninth Beatitude which a man of wit (who, like a man of wit, was a long time in gaol) added to the eighth.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear.

Such were the notes thy once lov'd poet sung, Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.

Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide, Or gave his father grief but when he died.

Each finding like a friend Something to blame, and something to commend.

I think it was a generous thought, and one that fow'd from an exalted mind, that it was not improbable but God might be delighted with the various methods of worshipping him, which divided the whole world.

For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight; His can't be wrong whose life is in the right.

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

Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell, For sober, studious days!

Well, if our author in the wife offends He has a husband that will make amends; He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving, And sure such kind good creatures may be living.

The stoic husband was the glorious thing. The man had courage, was a sage, 'tis true, And lov'd his country.

I find myself just in the same situation of mind you describe as your own, heartily wishing the good, that is the quiet of my country, and hoping a total end of all the unhappy divisions of mankind by party-spirit, which at best is but the …

Nothing can be more shocking and horrid than one of our kitchens sprinkled with blood, and abounding with the cries of expiring victims, or with the limbs of dead animals scattered or hung up here and there. It gives one the image of a …