Nature (n.) is ultimately a set of brute facts, whose underlying rational principle, if there is any, is forever 'totally shut up from human curiosity and enquiry.
Nature (n.) kept its final secrets after Newton lifted one veil, in the same darkness where they always were and always will be.
Nature (n.) diversifies her operations so much on this small globe — can we imagine she copies herself throughout so immense a universe?
Nature (n.) as a volume contains a great and inexplicable riddle more than any intelligible discourse.
Nature (n.) is the vague word the vulgar refer everything to, and perhaps at bottom no more inexplicable than reason itself.
Nature (n.) uses curious artifices to embitter every life: each animal surrounded before and behind, above and below, by enemies — insects with smaller insects tormenting them in turn.
Nature (n.) cares only that the species be upheld, not that its members be happy: no machinery merely for pleasure, no indulgence without some want accompanying it.
Nature (n.) is a rigid master, not an indulgent parent: she calculates each creature's necessities exactly and grants barely enough powers to meet them, with no reserve against accident.
Nature (n.) is blind, impregnated by a great vivifying principle, pouring forth from her lap without discernment or parental care her maimed and abortive children.
Nature (n.) has happily deceived us into the opinion that human life is of some importance; reflection on its brevity counterworks her artifice.