Alexander Pope

Nothing  so true as what you once let fall, "Most Women have no Characters at all
" Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,
And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair
How many pictures of one Nymph we view,

What beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade    Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade
'Tis she
—but why that bleeding bosom gor'd,    Why dimly gleams the visionary sword
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly

Nolueram,
Belinda, tuos violare capillos;
Sedjuvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis
(Martial,

You know where you did despise (Tother day) my little Eyes, Little Legs, and little Thighs, And some things, of little Size, You know where
You, tis true, have fine black eyes, Taper legs, and tempting Thighs, Yet what more than all we prize ...

Yet, yet a moment, one dim ray of light Indulge, dread Chaos, and eternal Night
Of darkness visible so much be lent,
As half to show, half veil, the deep intent
Ye pow'rs

Neque sermonibus vulgi dederis te, nec in præ­is spem posueris rerum tuarum;suiste oportet illecebris ipsa virtus trahat ad verum decus
Quid de te alii loquantur, ipsi videant,sed loquentur tamen
(Cicero,
De Re Publica VI

In that soft season, when descending
Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flow'rs;
When op'ning buds salute the welcome day,
And earth relenting feels the genial day,

Happy the man, whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,                                In his own ground
Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,

All hail, once pleasing, once inspiring shade
Scene of my youthful loves and happier hours
Where the kind Muses met me as I stray'd,
And gently press'd my hand, and said "Be ours

Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flow'rs, Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs, There stands a structure of majestic frame, Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name
Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredo...

Celia, we know, is sixty-five,
Yet Celia's face is seventeen;
Thus winter in her breast must live,
While summer in her face is seen

Thy forests,
Windsor
and thy green retreats,
At once the Monarch's and the Muse's seats,

I
Silence
coeval with Eternity;
Thou wert, ere Nature's-self began to be,'Twas one vast Nothing, all, and all slept fast in thee

"Sir,
I admit your general rule,
That every poet is a fool
But you yourself may serve to show it,

Women ben full of Ragerie,
Yet swinken not sans secresie
Thilke Moral shall ye understond,
From Schoole-boy's Tale of fayre Irelond:

Fain would my Muse the flow'ry Treasures sing,
And humble glories of the youthful Spring;
Where opening Roses breathing sweets diffuse,
And soft Carnations show'r their balmy dews;