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.
Edward YoungPraise, more divine than prayer; prayer points our ready path to heaven; praise is already there.
Edward YoungMan wants but little, nor that little long; How soon must he resign his very dust, Which frugal nature lent him for an hour!
Edward Young