Edward Young Quotes

The course of Nature is the art of God

Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.

Nothing in Nature, much less conscious being, Was e'er created solely for itself.

They only babble who practise not reflection

The first sure symptom of a mind in health Is rest of heart and pleasure felt at home.

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

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

The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.

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.

Friendship's the wine of life: but friendship new... is neither strong nor pure.

Born originals, how comes it to pass that we die copies? That meddling ape imitation, as soon as we come to years of indiscretion, (so let me speak,) snatches the pen, and blots out nature's mark of separation, cancels her kind intention, destroys all mental individuality. The lettered world no longer consists of singulars: it is a medley, a mass; and a hundred books, at bottom, are but one.

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

Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast.

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

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

Be wise today; 'tis madness to defer. Next day the fatal precedent will plead; thus on, til wisdom is pushed our of life.

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

Too low they build who build below the skies.

Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave that wears a title lies.

A dedication is a wooden leg.

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

The spirit walks of every day deceased.

Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.

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.

Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.

They most the world enjoy who least admire.

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, "That all men are about to live."

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

We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies?

Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat defects of judgment, and the will subdue; walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore of that vast ocean it must sail so soon.

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.

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

In youth, what disappointments of our own making: in age, what disappointments from the nature of things.

Old men love novelties; the last arriv'd Still pleases best; the youngest steals their smiles.

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

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

He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.

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

Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.

The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.

Be wise with speed; a fool at forty is a fool indeed.

By night an atheist half-believes in God.

A dearth of words a woman need not fear; But 'tis a task indeed to learn to hear: In that the skill of conversation lies; That shows and makes you both polite and wise.

When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.

Our birth is nothing but our death begun; As tapers waste, that instant they take fire.

Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?