In discourse more sweet;

For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense.

Others apart sat on a hill retir'd,

In thoughts more elevate, and reason'd high

Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,

Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute;

And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book ii. Line 555.

But, alas, to make me

A fixed figure for the time of scorn

To point his slow unmoving finger at!

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Othello. Act iv. Sc. 2.

Fix'd like a plant on his peculiar spot,

To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Essay on Man. Epistle ii. Line 63.

Small have continual plodders ever won

Save base authority from others' books.

These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights

That give a name to every fixed star

Have no more profit of their shining nights

Than those that walk and wot not what they are.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Love's Labour's Lost. Act i. Sc. 1.