Life's cares are comforts; such by Heav'n design'd; He that hath none must make them, or be wretched.
Edward YoungHow poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man!... Midway from nothing to the Deity!
Edward YoungDeath! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.
Edward YoungBorn 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.
Edward Young