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And binding nature fast in fate, Left free the human will.

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
Fast
Fate
Free
Left
Nature
Human
Humans
Binding

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But to the world no bugbear is so great, As want of figure and a small estate.
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But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.
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Learn of the little nautilus to sail, Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale.
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The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
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Fine sense and exalted sense are not half so useful as common sense. There are forty men of wit for one man of sense and he that will carry nothing about him but gold, will be every day at a loss for want of readier change.
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All chance, direction, which thou canst not see
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What so pure, which envious tongues will spare? Some wicked wits have libell'd all the fair, With matchless impudence they style a wife, The dear-bought curse, and lawful plague of life A bosom serpent, a domestic evil, A night invasion, and a mid-day devil Let not the wise these sland'rous words regard, But curse the bones of ev'ry living bard.
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They dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake.
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No craving void left aching in the soul.
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Nay, fly to altars there they'll talk you dead For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
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In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fix'd: 't is fix'd as in a frost contracted all, retiring to the breast but strength of mind is exercise, not rest.
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Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
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Most women have no characters at all.
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The laughers are a majority.
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All Nature is but art, unknown to thee All chance, direction, which thou canst not see All discord, harmony not understood All partial evil, universal good.
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Religion blushing, veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires.
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The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.
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Genius creates, and taste preserves.
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Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always To be Blest.
Alexander Pope
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But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.
Alexander Pope