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Wine Works The Heart Up, Wakes The Wit, There Is No Cure 'gainst Age But It

-Alexander Pope

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Wine Works The Heart

Alexander Pope

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Wine Works The Heart Up, Wakes The Wit, There Is No Cure 'gainst Age But It

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To Err Is Human; To Forgive, Divine.

Fortune In Men Has Some Small Diff'rence Made, One Flaunts In Rags, One Flutters In Brocade, The Cobbler Apron'd, And The Parson Gown'd, The Friar Hooded, And The Monarch Crown'd.

Here Am I, Dying Of A Hundred Good Symptoms.

Famous Last Words

Dear, Damned, Distracting Town, Farewell! Thy Fools No More I'll Tease: This Year In Peace, Ye Critics, Dwell, Ye Harlots, Sleep At Ease!

What Conscience Dictates To Be Done, Or Warns Me Not To Do; This Teach Me More Than Hell To Shun, That More Than Heav'n Pursue.

Drink Is The Feast Of Reason And The Flow Of Soul.

Cavil You May, But Never Criticise.

What's Fame? A Fancy'd Life In Other's Breath. A Thing Beyond Us, Even Before Our Death.

The Search Of Our Future Being Is But A Needless, Anxious, And Haste To Be Knowing, Sooner Than We Can, What, Without All This Solicitude, We Shall Know A Little Later.

Like Cato, Give His Little Senate Laws, And Sit Attentive To His Own Applause.

Die Of A Rose In Aromatic Pain.

Where Beams Of Imagination Play, The Memory's Soft Figures Melt Away.

Then, At The Last And Only Couplet Fraught With Some Unmeaning Thing They Call A Thought, A Needless Alexandrine Ends The Song, That, Like A Wounded Snake, Drags Its Slow Length Along.

By Music Minds An Equal Temper Know, Nor Swell Too High, Nor Sink Too Low. . . . . Warriors She Fires With Animated Sounds. Pours Balm Into The Bleeding Lover's Wounds.

Let Such Teach Others Who Themselves Excel, And Censure Freely Who Have Written Well.

Trust Not Yourself, But Your Defects To Know, Make Use Of Every Friend And Every Foe.

Judge Not Of Actions By Their Mere Effect; Dive To The Center, And The Cause Detect. Great Deeds From Meanest Springs May Take Their Course, And Smallest Virtues From A Mighty Source.

Tis Strange The Miser Should His Cares Employto Gain Those Riches He Can Ne'er Enjoy;is It Less Strange The Prodigal Should Wastehis Wealth To Purchase What He Ne'er Can Taste?

The Most Positive Men Are The Most Credulous, Since They Most Believe Themselves, And Advise Most With Their Falsest Flatterer And Worst Enemy--their Own Self-love.

Never Elated When Someone's Oppressed, Never Dejected When Another One's Blessed.

Choose A Firm Cloud Before It Fall, And In It Catch, Ere She Change, The Cynthia Of This Minute.

Get Place And Wealth, If Possible With Grace; If Not, By Any Means Get Wealth And Place.

While I Live, No Rich Or Noble Knave Shall Walk The World In Credit To His Grave.

True Self-love And Social Are The Same.

To Buy Books As Some Do Who Make No Use Of Them, Only Because They Were Published By An Eminent Printer, Is Much As If A Man Should Buy Clothes That Did Not Fit Him, Only Because They Were Made By Some Famous Tailor.

From The Moment One Sets Up For An Author, One Must Be Treated As Ceremoniously, That Is As Unfaithfully, "as A King's Favorite Or A King.

Nay, Fly To Altars; There They'll Talk You Dead; For Fools Rush In Where Angels Fear To Tread.

She Went From Opera, Park, Assembly, Play, To Morning Walks, And Prayers Three Hours A Day. To Part Her Time 'twixt Reading And Bohea, To Muse, And Spill Her Solitary Tea, Or O'er Cold Coffee Trifle With The Spoon, Count The Slow Clock, And Dine Exact At Noon.

What Is Fame? A Fancied Life In Others' Breath.

Chaos Of Thought And Passion, All Confus'd.

In The Nice Bee, What Sense So Subtly True From Pois'nous Herbs Extracts The Healing Dew?

Learning Is Like Mercury, One Of The Most Powerful And Excellent Things In The World In Skillful Hands; In Unskillful, The Most Mischievous.

Fine Sense And Exalted Sense Are Not Half So Useful As Common Sense. There Are Forty Men Of Wit For One Man Of Sense; And He That Will Carry Nothing About Him But Gold, Will Be Every Day At A Loss For Want Of Readier Change.

Talk What You Will Of Taste, My Friend, You'll Find Two Of A Face As Soon As Of A Mind.

Order Is Heaven's First Law.

Soft Is The Strain When Zephyr Gently Blows, And The Smooth Stream In Smoother Numbers Flows; But When Loud Surges Lash The Sounding Shore, The Hoarse Rough Verse Should Like The Torrent Roar. When Ajax Strives Some Rock's Vast Weight To Throw, The Line Too Labours, And The Words Move Slow: Not So When Swift Camilla Scours The Plain, Flies O'er Th' Unbending Corn, And Skims Along The Main.

On Life's Vast Ocean Diversely We Sail. Reasons The Card, But Passion The Gale.

What Tully Said Of War May Be Applied To Disputing: "it Should Be Always So Managed As To Remember That The Only True End Of It Is Peace." But Generally True Disputants Are Like True Sportsmen,--their Whole Delight Is In The Pursuit; And The Disputant No More Cares For The Truth Than The Sportsman For The Hare.

No Writing Is Good That Does Not Tend To Better Mankind In Some Way Or Other.

Let Fortune Do Her Worst, Whatever She Makes Us Lose, So Long As She Never Makes Us Lose Our Honesty And Our Independence.

Find, If You Can, In What You Cannot Change. Manners With Fortunes, Humours Turn With Climes, Tenets With Books, And Principles With Times.

Simplicity Is The Mean Between Ostentation And Rusticity.

Silence! Coeval With Eternity! Thou Wert Ere Nature's Self Began To Be; Thine Was The Sway Ere Heaven Was Formed On Earth, Ere Fruitful Thought Conceived Creation's Birth.

Old Men, For The Most Part, Are Like Old Chronicles That Give You Dull But True Accounts Of Times Past, And Are Worth Knowing Only On That Score.

To What Base Ends, And By What Abject Ways, Are Mortals Urg'd Through Sacred Lust Of Praise!

I Begin Where Most People End, With A Full Conviction Of The Emptiness Of All Sorts Of Ambition, And The Unsatisfactory Nature Of All Human Pleasures.

To The Elysian Shades Dismiss My Soul, Where No Carnation Fades.

Wine Works The Heart Up, Wakes The Wit, There Is No Cure 'gainst Age But It

Not To Go Back Is Somewhat To Advance, And Men Must Walk, At Least, Before They Dance.

The Muse But Serv'd To Ease Some Friend, Not Wife, / To Help Me Through This Long Disease, My Life.

A Gen'rous Heart Repairs A Sland'rous Tongue.

What Reason Weaves, By Passion Is Undone.

What Bosom Beast Not In His Country's Cause?

And Make Each Day A Critic On The Last.

The Vulgar Boil, The Learned Roast, An Egg.

The Same Ambition Can Destroy Or Save, And Make A Patriot As It Makes A Knave.

Some To Conceit Alone Their Taste Confine, And Glittering Thoughts Struck Out At Ev'ry Line; Pleas'd With A Work Where Nothing's Just Or Fit; One Glaring Chaos And Wild Heap Of Wit.

Only Music Has The Ability To Take You To The Edge Of Reality And Allow You To Peek In For A Moment.

A Little Learning Is A Dangerous Thing; Drink Deep, Or Taste Not The Pierian Spring.

What Nature Wants, Commodious Gold Bestows; 'tis Thus We Cut The Bread Another Sows.

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.

There Is Nothing That Is Meritorious But Virtue And Friendship.

On Her White Breast A Sparkling Cross She Wore, Which Jews Might Kiss And Infidels Adore.

Poets Heap Virtues, Painters Gems, At Will, And Show Their Zeal, And Hide Their Want Of Skill.

Ah! What Avails It Me The Flocks To Keep, Who Lost My Heart While I Preserv'd My Sheep.

O Let Us Still The Secret Joy Partake, To Follow Virtue Even For Virtue's Sake.

Our Business In The Field Of Fight, Is Not To Question, But To Prove Our Might.

Say, Will The Falcon, Stooping From Above, Smit With Her Varying Plumage, Spare The Dove? Admires The Jay The Insect's Gilded Wings? Or Hears The Hawk When Philomela Sings?

You Beat Your Pate, And Fancy Wit Will Come: Knock As You Please, There's No Body At Home.

Eve Left Adam, To Meet The Devil In Private.

See The Wild Waste Of All-devouring Years! How Rome Her Own Sad Sepulchre Appears, With Nodding Arches, Broken Temples Spread! The Very Tombs Now Vanish'd Like Their Dead!

See! From The Brake The Whirring Pheasant Springs, And Mounts Exulting On Triumphant Wings; Short Is His Joy! He Feels The Fiery Wound, Flutters In Blood, And Panting Beats The Ground.

See Christians, Jews, One Heavy Sabbath Keep, And All The Western World Believe And Sleep.

Satire Or Sense, Alas! Can Sporus Feel? Who Breaks A Butterfly Upon A Wheel?

To Him No High, No Low, No Great, No Small; He Fills, He Bounds, Connects And Equals All!

The Learned Is Happy, Nature To Explore; The Fool Is Happy, That He Knows No More.

I Would Not Be Like Those Authors, Who Forgive Themselves Some Particular Lines For The Sake Of A Whole Poem, And Vice Versa A Whole Poem For The Sake Of Some Particular Lines. I Believe No One Qualification Is So Likely To Make A Good Writer, As The Power Of Rejecting His Own Thoughts.

Truths Would You Teach, Or Save A Sinking Land? All Fear, None Aid You, And Few Understand.

Education Forms The Common Mind. Just As The Twig Is Bent, The Tree's Inclined.

Oh, When Shall Britain, Conscious Of Her Claim, Stand Emulous Of Greek And Roman Fame? In Living Medals See Her Wars Enroll'd, And Vanquished Realms Supply Recording Gold?

Therefore They Who Say Our Thoughts Are Not Our Own Because They Resemble The Ancients, May As Well Say Our Faces Are Not Our Own, Because They Are Like Our Fathers: And Indeed It Is Very Unreasonable, That People Should Expect Us To Be Scholars, And Yet Be Angry To Find Us So.

A Pear-tree Planted Nigh: 'twas Charg'd With Fruit That Made A Goodly Show, And Hung With Dangling Pears Was Every Bough.

Tis From High Life High Characters Are Drawn; A Saint In Crape Is Twice A Saint In Lawn: A Judge Is Just, A Chanc'llor Juster Still; A Gownman Learn'd; A Bishop What You Will; Wise If A Minister; But If A King, More Wise, More Learn'd, More Just, More Ev'rything.

Consult The Genius Of The Place, That Paints As You Plant, And As You Work.

Is Not Absence Death To Those Who Love?

Saying Good Bye

True Wit Is Nature To Advantage Dressed; What Oft Was Thought, But Ne'er So Well Expressed.

Like Bubbles On The Sea Of Matter Borne, They Rise, They Break, And To That Sea Return.

Heaven From All Creatures Hides The Book Of Fate.

Our Proper Bliss Depends On What We Blame.

Every Professional Was Once An Amateur.

The Hungry Judges Soon The Sentence Sign, And Wretches Hang That Jurymen May Dine.

Modest Plainness Sets Off Sprightly Wit, For Works May Have More With Than Does 'em Good, As Bodies Perish Through Excess Of Blood.

Where Grows?--where Grows It Not? If Vain Our Toil, We Ought To Blame The Culture, Not The Soil.

Give Me Again My Hollow Tree A Crust Of Bread, And Liberty!

What Then Remains, But Well Our Power To Use, And Keep Good-humor Still Whate'er We Lose? And Trust Me, Dear, Good-humor Can Prevail, When Airs, And Flights, And Screams, And Scolding Fail.

The Hog That Ploughs Not, Not Obeys Thy Call, Lives On The Labours Of This Lord Of All.

Never Was It Given To Mortal Man - To Lie So Boldly As We Women Can.

Those Oft Are Stratagems Which Errors Seem Nor Is It Homer Nods, But We That Dream.

Authors Are Partial To Their Wit, 'tis True, But Are Not Critics To Their Judgment, Too?

An Excuse Is Worse And More Terrible Than A Lie; For An Excuse Is A Lie Guarded.

Fame Can Never Make Us Lie Down Contentedly On A Deathbed.

In Men, We Various Ruling Passions Find; In Women, Two Almost Divide The Kind Those, Only Fixed, They First Or Last Obey, The Love Of Pleasure, And The Love Of Sway.

Who Taught That Heaven-directed Spire To Rise?

The Sound Must Seem An Echo To The Sense.

Reason, However Able, Cool At Best, Cares Not For Service, Or But Serves When Prest, Stays Till We Call, And Then Not Often Near.

How Shall I Lose The Sin, Yet Keep The Sense, And Love The Offender, Yet Detest The Offence?

Oh! Be Thou Blest With All That Heaven Can Send, Long Health, Long Youth, Long Pleasure-and A Friend.

Taste, That Eternal Wanderer, Which Flies From Head To Ears, And Now From Ears To Eyes.

A King May Be A Tool, A Thing Of Straw; But If He Serves To Frighten Our Enemies, And Secure Our Property, It Is Well Enough; A Scarecrow Is A Thing Of Straw, But It Protects The Corn.

A Fly, A Grape-stone, Or A Hair Can Kill.

A Patriot Is A Fool In Ev'ry Age.

While Man Exclaims, "see All Things For My Use!" "see Man For Mine!" Replies A Pamper'd Goose.

Who Pants For Glory, Finds But Short Repose; A Breath Revives Him, Or A Breath O'erthrows.

Self-love, The Spring Of Motion, Acts The Soul; Reason's Comparing Balance Rules The Whole. Man, But For That No Action Could Attend, And, But For This, Were Active To No End: Fix'd Like A Plant On His Peculiar Spot, To Draw Nutrition, Propagate, And Rot; Or, Meteor-like, Flame Lawless Thro' The Void, Destroying Others, By Himself Destroy'd.

No Creature Smarts So Little As A Fool.

Two Women Seldom Grow Intimate But At The Expense Of A Third Person; They Make Friendships As Kings Of Old Made Leagues, Who Sacrificed Some Poor Animal Betwixt Them, And Commenced Strict Allies; So The Ladies, After They Have Pulled Some Character To Pieces, Are From Henceforth Inviolable Friends.

The Worst Of Madmen Is A Saint Run Mad.

Hills Peep O'er Hills, And Alps On Alps Arise.

The Physician, By The Study And Inspection Of Urine And Ordure, Approves Himself In The Science; And In Like Sort Should Our Author Accustom And Exercise His Imagination Upon The Dregs Of Nature.

Cursed Be The Verse, How Well So E'er It Flow, That Tends To Make One Worthy Man My Foe.

When To Mischief Mortals Bend Their Will, How Soon They Find It Instruments Of Ill.

What So Pure, Which Envious Tongues Will Spare? Some Wicked Wits Have Libell'd All The Fair, With Matchless Impudence They Style A Wife, The Dear-bought Curse, And Lawful Plague Of Life; A Bosom Serpent, A Domestic Evil, A Night Invasion, And A Mid-day Devil; Let Not The Wise These Sland'rous Words Regard, But Curse The Bones Of Ev'ry Living Bard.

So Modern 'pothecaries, Taught The Art By Doctor's Bills To Play The Doctor's Part, Bold In The Practice Of Mistaken Rules, Prescribe, Apply, And Call Their Masters Fools.

Virtue Alone Is Happiness Below.

Soft O'er The Shrouds Aerial Whispers Breathe, That Seemed But Zephyrs To The Train Beneath.

Good-nature And Good-sense Must Ever Join; To Err Is Human, To Forgive, Divine.

But Thousands Die Without Or This Or That, Die, And Endow A College Or A Cat.

A Work Of Art That Contains Theories Is Like An Object On Which The Price Tag Has Been Left.

Beauty That Shocks You, Parts That None Will Trust, Wit That Can Creep, And Pride That Licks The Dust.

A Tree Is A Nobler Object Than A Prince In His Coronation-robes.

Health Consists With Temperance Alone.

Learn To Live Well, Or Fairly Make Your Will; You've Play'd, And Lov'd, And Ate, And Drank Your Fill: Walk Sober Off, Before A Sprightlier Age Comes Titt'ring On, And Shoves You From The Stage.

The Time Shall Come, When, Free As Seas Or Wind, Unbounded Thames Shall Flow For All Mankind, Whole Nations Enter With Each Swelling Tide, And Seas But Join The Regions They Divide; Earth's Distant Ends Our Glory Shall Behold, And The New World Launch Forth To Seek The Old.

Lo! The Poor Indian! Whose Untutor'd Mind Sees God In Clouds, Or Hears Him In The Wind; His Soul Proud Science Never Taught To Stray Far As The Solar Walk Or Milky Way.

So Upright Quakers Please Both Man And God.

At Ev'ry Word A Reputation Dies.

Fool, 'tis In Vain From Wit To Wit To Roam: Know, Sense, Like Charity, Begins At Home.

Is It, In Heav'n, A Crime To Love Too Well? To Bear Too Tender Or Too Firm A Heart, To Act A Lover's Or A Roman's Part? Is There No Bright Reversion In The Sky For Those Who Greatly Think, Or Bravely Die?

Many Men Have Been Capable Of Doing A Wise Thing, More A Cunning Thing, But Very Few A Generous Thing.

For I, Who Hold Sage Homer's Rule The Best, Welcome The Coming, Speed The Going Guest.

Th' Unwilling Gratitude Of Base Mankind!

Music Resembles Poetry, In Each Are Nameless Graces Which No Methods Teach, And Which A Master Hand Alone Can Reach.

I Am His Highness' Dog At Kew; Pray Tell Me, Sir, Whose Dog Are You?

Get Your Enemy To Read Your Works In Order To Mend Them, For Your Friend Is So Much Your Second Self That He Will Judge Too Like You.

Tis Use Alone That Sanctifies Expense And Splendor Borrow All Her Rays From Sense.

Religion Blushing, Veils Her Sacred Fires, And Unawares Morality Expires.

Whoe'er He Be That Tells My Faults, I Hate Him Mortally.

Amusement Is The Happiness Of Those Who Cannot Think.

Judges And Senates Have Been Bought For Gold; Esteem And Love Were Never To Be Sold.

Woman's At Best A Contradiction Still.

Genius Involves Both Envy And Calumny.

No Silver Saints, By Dying Misers Giv'n, Here Brib'd The Rage Of Ill-requited Heav'n; But Such Plain Roofs As Piety Could Raise, And Only Vocal With The Maker's Praise.

The Scripture In Times Of Disputes Is Like An Open Town In Times Of War, Which Serves In Differently The Occasions Of Both Parties.

In Various Talk Th' Instructive Hours They Past, Who Gave The Ball, Or Paid The Visit Last; One Speaks The Glory Of The British Queen, And One Describes A Charming Indian Screen; A Third Interprets Motions, Looks, And Eyes; At Every Word A Reputation Dies.

A Good-natured Man Has The Whole World To Be Happy Out Of.

Some Place The Bliss In Action, Some In Ease, Those Call It Pleasure, And Contentment These.

Envy, To Which Th' Ignoble Mind's A Slave, Is Emulation In The Learn'd Or Brave.

Great Oaks Grow From Little Acorns. He Has A Green Thumb. He Has Green Fingers. He's Sowing His Wild Oats. Here Ceres' Gifts In Waving Prospect Stand, And Nodding Tempt The Joyful Reaper's Hand.

Women, As They Are Like Riddles In Being Unintelligible, So Generally Resemble Them In This, That They Please Us No Longer Once We Know Them.

Death, Only Death, Can Break The Lasting Chain; And Here, Ev'n Then, Shall My Cold Dust Remain

'tis Not A Lip, Or Eye, We Beauty Call, But The Joint Force And Full Result Of All.

You Purchase Pain With All That Joy Can Give And Die Of Nothing But A Rage To Live.

Those Move Easiest Who Have Learn'd To Dance.

On Cold December Fragrant Chaplets Blow, And Heavy Harvests Nod Beneath The Snow.

Good-humor Only Teaches Charms To Last, Still Makes New Conquests And Maintains The Past.

The Soul, Uneasy And Confin'd From Home, Rests And Expatiates In A Life To Come.

How Index-learning Turns No Student Pale, Yet Holds The Eel Of Science By The Tail!

Whether With Reason, Or With Instinct Blest, Know, All Enjoy That Pow'r Which Suits Them Best.

Condition, Circumstance, Is Not The Thing; Bliss Is The Same In Subject Or In King.

Dulness! Whose Good Old Cause I Yet Defend, With Whom My Muse Began, With Who Shall End.

As With Narrow-necked Bottles; The Less They Have In Them, The More Noise They Make In Pouring Out.

Where London's Column, Pointing At The Skies, Like A Tall Bully, Lifts The Head, And Lies.

Who Dare To Love Their Country, And Be Poor.

A Wit With Dunces, And A Dunce With Wits.

A Perfect Judge Will Read Each Word Of Wit With The Same Spirit That Its Author Writ.

And Write About It, Goddess, And About It!

Time Conquers All, And We Must Time Obey.

A Perfect Judge Will Read Each Work Of Wit With The Same Spirit That Its Author Writ: Survey The Whole, Nor Seek Slight Faults To Find Where Nature Moves, And Rapture Warms The Mind.

Know Then, Unnumber'd Spirits Round Thee Fly, The Light Militia Of The Lower Sky.

The Meeting Points The Sacred Hair Dissever From The Fair Head, Forever, And Forever! Then Flashed The Living Lightning From Her Eyes, And Screams Of Horror Rend Th' Affrighted Skies.

The Heart Resolves This Matter In A Trice, "men Only Feel The Smart, But Not The Vice.

And Each Blasphemer Quite Escape The Rod, Because The Insult's Not On Man, But God?

In Death A Hero, As In Life A Friend!

Honor And Shame From No Condition Rise. Act Well Your Part: There All The Honor Lies.

To Teach Vain Wits That Science Little Known, T' Admire Superior Sense, And Doubt Their Own!

But If You'll Prosper, Mark What I Advise, Whom Age, And Long Experience Render Wise.

Dear Fatal Name! Rest Ever Unreveal'd, Nor Pass These Lips In Holy Silence Seal'd. Hide It, My Heart, Within That Close Disguise, Where Mixed With Gods, His Lov'd Idea Lies: O Write It Not, My Hand - The Name Appears Already Written - Wash It Out, My Tears! In Vain Lost Eloisa Weeps And Prays, Her Heart Still Dictates, And Her Hand Obeyes.

Truth Shines The Brighter, Clad In Verse.

Others Import Yet Nobler Arts From France, Teach Kings To Fiddle, And Make Senates Dance.

One Thought Of Thee Puts All The Pomp To Flight; Priests, Tapers, Temples, Swim Before My Sight.

In A Sadly Pleasing Strain, Let The Warbling Lute Complain.

There Should Be, Methinks, As Little Merit In Loving A Woman For Her Beauty As In Loving A Man For His Prosperity; Both Being Equally Subject To Change.

The Difference Is Too Nice - Where Ends The Virtue Or Begins The Vice.

Know Then This Truth, Enough For Man To Know Virtue Alone Is Happiness Below.

In Adamantine Chains Shall Death Be Bound, And Hell's Grim Tyrant Feel Th' Eternal Wound.

Of All Affliction Taught A Lover Yet, 'tis True The Hardest Science To Forget.

Whoever Thinks A Faultless Piece To See, Thinks What Ne'er Was, Nor Is, Nor E'er Shall Be.

The Difference Is As Great Between The Optics Seeing As The Objects Seen. All Manners Take A Tincture From Our Own; Or Come Discolor'd Through Out Passions Shown; Or Fancy's Beam Enlarges, Multiplies, Contracts, Inverts, And Gives Ten Thousand Dyes.

Charm Strikes The Sight, But Merit Wins The Soul.

He Who Serves His Brother Best Gets Nearer God Than All The Rest.

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