Edward Young Quotes

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.

Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.

Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.

Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?

Prayer ardent opens heaven.

Life's cares are comforts; such by Heav'n design'd; He that hath none must make them, or be wretched.

It calls Devotion! genuine growth of night! Devotion! Daughter of Astronomy! An undevout astronomer is mad!

Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.

And friend received with thumps upon the back.

Creation sleeps! 'T is as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause,- An awful pause! prophetic of her end.

Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other's heel.

The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss.

To know the world, not love her, is thy point; She gives but little, nor that little, long.

Take God from nature, nothing great is left.

Time elaborately thrown away.

We see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!

The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.

Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame? Earth's highest station ends in 'Here he lies;' and 'Dust to dust' concludes the noblest songs.

As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.

But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten'd indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.

However smothered under former negligence, or scattered through the dull, dark mass of common thoughts - let thy genius rise as the sun from chaos.

Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.

Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.

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

Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It, makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.

Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.

In an active life is sown the seed of wisdom... And age, if it has not esteem, has nothing.

They most the world enjoy who least admire.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.

Man wants but little, nor that little long; How soon must he resign his very dust, Which frugal nature lent him for an hour!

A strange alternative * * *Must women have a doctor or a dance?

Nothing but what astonishes is true.

A dedication is a wooden leg.

[The] public path of life Is dirty.

Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.

A tardy vengeance shares the tyrant's guilt.

This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, thro' which it rolls, must all have end. What then is man? The smallest part of nothing.

Who gives an empire, by the gift defeats All end of giving; and procures contempt Instead of gratitude.

O let me be undone the common way, And have the common comfort to be pity'd, And not be ruin'd in the mask of bliss, And so be envy'd, and be wretched too!