Al R. Young Quotes

Nature delights in progress; in advance.

Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.

Men should press forward, in fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

Men before you have quit smoking - you can too!

Wishing of all employments is the worst

All men think that all men are mortal but themselves.

Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.

A foe to God ne'er was true friend to man, Some sinister intent taints all he does.

The house of laughter makes a house of woe.

People unconsciously want to reveal their inner urges.

Why does nothing change, even when you set out for a faraway place?

There are only two ways to be a god: through creation or murder.

We are not all great because we are inspired, but we feel great because we are.

A God alone can comprehend a God.

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.

The man who consecrates his hours by vigorous effort, and an honest aim, at once he draws the sting of life and Death; he walks with nature; and her paths are peace.

Day buries day; month, month; and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.

Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.

'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.

Praise, more divine than prayer; prayer points our ready path to heaven; praise is already there.

The man that makes a character, makes foes.

Wouldst thou be famed? have those high acts in view, Brave men would act though scandal would ensue.

Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?

We nothing know, but what is marvellous; Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.

What ardently we wish, we soon believe.

What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.

The qualities all in a bee that we meet, In an epigram never should fail; The body should always be little and sweet, And a sting should be felt in its tail.

Fame is the shade of immortality, And in itself a shadow. Soon as caught, Contemn'd; it shrinks to nothing in the grasp.

The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.

It is great and manly to disdain disguise; it shows our spirit and proves our strength.

Let no man trust the first false step of guilt; it hangs upon a precipice, whose steep descent in last perdition ends.

They build too low who build beneath the skies.

Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!

Man wants little, nor that little long.

Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes.

What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!

An undevout astronomer is mad.

Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.

There is nothing of which men are more liberal than their good advice, be their stock of it ever so small; because it seems to carry in it an intimation of their own influence, importance or worth.

Horace appears in good humor while he censures, and therefore his censure has the more weight, as supposed to proceed from judgment and not from passion.

To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.

They most the world enjoy who least admire.

It was [Kanye West] who spoke, and then we met and recorded some songs. After, you know what it is: we all bump like crazy.

When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees

Britannia's shame! There took her gloomy flight, On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul . Less base the fear of death than fear of life. O Britain! infamous for suicide.

I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) For fevers take an opera in June: And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold, A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold.

We push time from us, and we wish him back; * * * * * * Life we think long and short; death seek and shun.

Procrastination is the thief of time: Year after year it steals, till all are fled.

Give me, indulgent gods with mind serene, And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene, No splendid poverty, no smiling care, No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there.

The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze.