Thus does the white swan, as he lies on the wet grass, when the Fates summon him, sing at the fords of Maeander.
Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of fate in grounds of tea.
A person's fate is their own temper.
Leuconoe, close the book of fate, For troubles are in store, . . . . Live today, tomorrow is not.
This principle is old, but true as fate, Kings may love treason, but the traitor hate.
With evil omens from the harbour sails The ill-fated ship that worthless Arnold bears; God of the southern winds, call up thy gales, And whistle in rude fury round his ears.
The child of trial, to mortality And all its changeful influences given; On the green earth decreed to move and die, And yet by such a fate prepared for heaven.
Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul, Is the best gift of Heaven: a happiness That even above the smiles and frowns of fate Exalts great Nature's favourites: a wealth That ne'er encumbers, nor can be transferr'd.
Simple and brave, his faith awoke Ploughmen to struggle with their fate; Armies won battles when he spoke, And out of Chaos sprang the state.
The purely Great Whose soul no siren passion could unsphere, Thou nameless, now a power and mixed with fate.
But I have learned a thing or two; I know as sure as fate, When we lock up our lives for wealth, the gold key comes too late.
And binding nature fast in fate, Left free the human will.
If I live to grow old, as I find I go down, Let this be my fate in a country town; May I have a warm house, with a stone at my gate, And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate. May I govern my passions with an absolute sway, Grow wiser and better as my strength wears away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. - Walter Pope, The Old Man's Wish,