How happy is the blameless vestal's lot? The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
The learned is happy, nature to explore; The fool is happy, that he knows no more.
Nature and nature's laws lay hid in the night. God said, Let Newton be! and all was light!
Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.
So vast is art, so narrow human wit.
Those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
A God without dominion, providence, and final causes, is nothing else but fate and nature.
Who shall decide when doctors disagree, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?
Wit is the lowest form of humor.
But blind to former as to future fate, what mortal knows his pre-existent state?
Lo! The poor Indian, whose untutored mind sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind.
Order is heaven's first law.
Extremes in nature equal ends produce; In man they join to some mysterious use.
Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature's God.
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.
Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labor when the end was rest, Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.
Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored; Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; And universal darkness buries all.
What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things.
Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet, 'Tis true the hardest science to forget.
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight; Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight.
Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who lost my heart while I preserv'd my sheep.
Ye gods, annihilate but space and time, And make two lovers happy.
O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize, And make my tongue victorious as her eyes.
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.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: