To err is human, to forgive, divine.

Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of Sense, Lie in three words, Health, Peace, and Competence. But Health consists with Temperance alone, And Peace, oh Virtue! Peace is all thy own.

Intrepid then, o'er seas and lands he flew: Europe he saw, and Europe saw him too.

Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charm'd the small-pox, or chased old age away; Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce, Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?

Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, And now a bubble burst, and now a world.

A little learning is a dangerous thing; drink deep, taste not the Pierian Spring

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

Trust not yourself; but your defects to know, Make use of ev'ry friend—and ev'ry foe.

Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee.

Where beams of imagination play, The memory's soft figures melt away.

Inscriptions here of various Names I view'd, The greater part by hostile time subdu'd; Yet wide was spread their fame in ages past, And Poets once had promis'd they should last.

An excuse is worse and more terrible than a lie

Why charge we Heav'n in those, in these acquit? In both, to reason right is to submit.

How happy he, who free from care The rage of courts, and noise of towns; Contented breathes his native air, In his own grounds

Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear, with ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear...

How vain are all these Glories, all our Pains, Unless good Sense preserve what Beauty gains: That Men may say, when we the Front-box grace, Behold the first in Virtue, as in Face!

Sure flattery never traveled so far as three thousand miles; it is now only for truth, which over takes all things, to reach you at this distance.

We may see the small Value God has for Riches, by the People he gives them to." [Thoughts on Various Subjects, 1727]

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

The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, and wretches hang that jurymen may dine.

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

To be angry is to revenge the faults of others on ourselves.

Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground.

Averse alike to flatter, or offend; Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.

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

No place so scared from such frops is barred Nor is Paul's Church more safe than Paul's Churchyard Na fly to alter there they'll talk you dead For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

One science only will one genius fit/ So vast is art, so narrow human wit

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

What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do, This, teach me more than Hell to shun, That, more than Heaven pursue.

For when success a lover's toil attends, Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends

For forms of Government let fools contest. Whate'er is best administered is best.

Next o'er his books his eyes began to roll, In pleasing memory of all he stole.

Know thyself, presume not God to scan; The proper study of mankind is man.

A work of art that contains theories is like an object on which the price tag has been left.

True wit is nature to advantage dressed; What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed.

Some who grow dull religious straight commence And gain in morals what they lose in sense.

Remembrance and reflection how allied! What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide!

Then most our trouble still when most admired, And still the more we give, the more required; Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease, Sure some to vex, but never all to please.

The Dying Christian to His Soul (1712) -Vital spark of heav'nly flame! Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Stanza 1.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

Men, some to business take, some to pleasure take; but every woman is at heart a rake

Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see Men not afraid of God afraid of me.

Order is heaven's first law.

Chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd.

What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things,...

Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool. But you yourself may prove to show it, Every fool is not a poet.

In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.

While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.

Brevity is the soul of wit.

Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labor when the end was rest, Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.