Quote

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.

Alexander Pope

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Alexander Pope
Age: 56 †
Born: 1688
Born: May 21
Died: 1744
Died: May 30
Literary Historian
Poet
Translator
the City
Pope the Poet
Alexander I Pope
Alexander
I Pope
Find
Various
Firsts
Almost
Sway
First
Passion
Divide
Kind
Pleasure
Ruling
Men
Lasts
Obey
Love
Last
Divides
Two
Passions
Women
Fixed

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A perfect woman's but a softer man.
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Ye gods, annihilate but space and time, And make two lovers happy.
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No creature smarts so little as a fool.
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Whether the darken'd room to muse invite, Or whiten'd wall provoke the skew'r to write In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint, Like Lee or Budgel I will rhyme and print.
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All nature is but art unknown to thee.
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In this commonplace world every one is said to be romantic who either admires a fine thing or does one.
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Superstition is the spleen of the soul.
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Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old.
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To what base ends, and by what abject ways, Are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise!
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There is but one way I know of conversing safely with all men that is, not by concealing what we say or do, but by saying or doing nothing that deserves to be concealed.
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Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature's God.
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The season when to come, and when to go, to sing, or cease to sing, we never know.
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Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
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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.
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O let us still the secret joy partake, To follow virtue even for virtue's sake.
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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.
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He best can paint them who shall feel them most.
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Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old age away . . . . To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
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Conceit is to nature what paint is to beauty it is not only needless, but it impairs what it would improve.
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Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.
Alexander Pope