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.
Edward YoungWe see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!
Edward YoungDay buries day; month, month; and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.
Edward YoungIn an active life is sown the seed of wisdom; but he who reflects not, never reaps; has no harvest from it, but carries the burden of age without the wages of experience; nor knows himself old, but from his infirmities, the parish register, and the contempt of mankind. And age, if it has not esteem, has nothing.
Edward Young