A Quote by Alexander Pope

As some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire While expletives their feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.
Oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it promises; and oft it hits where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.
As some to Church repair, not for the doctrine, but the music there.
For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, The clamtrous lapwings feel the leaden death; Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare They fall, and leave their little lives in air.
O thou who passest through our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer, Oft pitchest here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging low with sullen roar.
The chance of war Is equal, and the slayer oft is slain.
Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.
If two lives join, there is oft a scar. They are one and one, with a shadowy third; One near one is too far.
And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
But as some muskets so contrive it As oft to miss the mark they drive at, And though well aimed at dock or plover Bear wide, and kick their owners over.
And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps At wisdom's gate, and to simplicity Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seems.
Though authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft let by the nose with gold.
Genius! thou gift of Heav'n! thou Light divine! Amid what dangers art thou doom'd to shine! Oft will the body's weakness check thy force, Oft damp thy Vigour, and impede thy course; And trembling nerves compel thee to restrain Thy noble efforts, to contend with pain; Or Want (sad guest!) will in thy presence come, And breathe around her melancholy gloom: To Life's low cares will thy proud thought confine, And make her sufferings, her impatience, thine.
Discord oft in music makes the sweeter lay.
Though old the thought and oft exprest, Tis his at last who says it best.
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