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Search then the ruling passion there alone, The wild are constant, and the cunning known The fool consistent, and the false sincere Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here.

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
Passion
Sincere
Known
Consistent
Women
Search
Wild
Dissemblers
False
Princes
Constant
Cunning
Fool
Ruling
Alone
Priests

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It is observable that the ladies frequent tragedies more than comedies the reason may be, that in tragedy their sex is deified and adored, in comedy exposed and ridiculed.
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Wholesome solitude, the nurse of sense!
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Women use lovers as they do cards they play with them a while, and when they have got all they can by them, throw them away, call for new ones, and then perhaps lose by the new all they got by the old ones.
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All seems infected that th' infected spy, As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye.
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A perfect woman's but a softer man.
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Whate'er the talents, or howe'er designed, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind.
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Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.
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No, make me mistress to the man I love If there be yet another name more free More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
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I find myself hoping a total end of all the unhappy divisions of mankind by party-spirit, which at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.
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Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favors call She comes unlooked for, if she comes at all .
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I lose my patience, and I own it too, When works are censur'd, not as bad but new While if our Elders break all reason's laws, These fools demand not pardon but Applause.
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Like following life through creatures you dissect, You lose it in the moment you detect.
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Chiefs who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer-days like grasshoppers rejoice - A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice.
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'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, But the joint force and full result of all.
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The dull flat falsehood serves for policy, and in the cunning, truth's itself a lie.
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Where'er you walk cool gales shall fan the glade, Trees where you sit shall crowd into a shade. Where'er you tread the blushing flowers shall rise, And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
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Ah! why, ye Gods, should two and two make four?
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Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, and fills up all the mighty void of sense.
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Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow The rest is all but leather and prunello.
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With sharpen'd sight pale Antiquaries pore, Th' inscription value, but the rust adore. This the blue varnish, that the green endears The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years.
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