
Alexander Pope
Epistle II To a Lady Of the Characters of Women
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,
Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady
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
The Rape of the Lock Canto 1
Nolueram,
Belinda, tuos violare capillos;
Sedjuvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis
(Martial,
Celia
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
Lines Written in Windsor Forest
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
Epistles to Several Persons Epistle to Dr Arbuthnot
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
The Temple of Fame
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,
Ode on Solitude
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,
The Rape of the Lock Canto 3
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...
In Imitation of E of Rochester On Silence
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
Untitled
"Sir,
I admit your general rule,
That every poet is a fool
But you yourself may serve to show it,
In Imitation of Chaucer
Women ben full of Ragerie,
Yet swinken not sans secresie
Thilke Moral shall ye understond,
From Schoole-boy's Tale of fayre Irelond: