“Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd.
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where mixed with Gods, his lov'd idea lies:
O write it not, my hand—the name appears
Already written—wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeyes.”
More from Alexander Pope
“Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labor when the end was rest, Indulged…”
“Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had…”
“All forms that perish other forms supply, (By turns we catch the vital breath and die)…”
“Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be,…”