Alexander Pope Quotes

English poet (1688–1744)

Alexander Pope (21 May 1688 – 30 May 1744) was a poet and satirist of the Augustan period and one of its greatest artistic exponents. Considered the foremost English poet of the early 18th century and a master of the heroic couplet, he is best known for satirical and discursive poetry.

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Alternative Names: Pope the Poet • Alexander I Pope • Alexander, I Pope

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There, take (says Justice), take ye each a shell: We thrive at Westminster on fools like you; 'T was a fat oyster,—live in peace,—adieu.

What beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?

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.

The stoic husband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a sage, 'tis true,
And lov'd his country.

The ruling passion, be it what it will, the ruling passion conquers reason still.

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.

While, from the bounded level of our mind, Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; But more advanced, behold, with strange surprise, New distant scenes of endless science rise!

Hati nurani adalah ruang pengadilan tertinggi

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LO! THY DREAD EMPIRE, CHAOS! IS RESTOR’D; LIGHT DIES BEFORE THY UNCREATING WORD; THY HAND, GREAT ANARCH! LETS THE CURTAIN FALL; AND UNIVERSAL DARKNESS BURIES ALL

"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.

How cruel Celia's fate, who hence
Our heart's devotion cannot try;
Too pretty for our reverence,
Too ancient for our gallantry!

Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume Thy bolts to throw, And deal damnation round the land On each I judge Thy foe.

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

"Z — ds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil! Plague on't!'t is past a jest — nay prithee, pox! Give her the hair" — he spoke, and rapp'd his box.

Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain. But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd, And chiefs contend 'till all the prize is lost! The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain, In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain: 110 With such a prize no mortal must be blest, So heav'n decrees! with heav'n who can contest?

All fools have still an itching to deride