Edward young quotes

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

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

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

As soon as we have found the key of life, it opens the gates of death.

The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done

Born Originals, how comes it to pass that we die Copies?

Where boasting ends, there dignity begins.

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.

By night an atheist half-believes in God.

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

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.

A friend is worth all hazards we can run.

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

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.

Leisure is pain; take off our chariot wheels; how heavily we drag the load of life!

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

The course of Nature is the art of God

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

All men think that all men are mortal but themselves.

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.

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.

The soul of man was made to walk the skies.

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

Live now; be damn'd hereafter.

Like our shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.

Truth never was indebted to a lie

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

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

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.

Mine is the night, with all her stars.

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.

Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast.

Pygmies are pygmies still, though percht on Alps; And pyramids are pyramids in vales. Each man makes his own stature, builds himself. Virtue alone outbuilds the Pyramids; Her monuments shall last when Egypt's fall.

A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.

'T is impious in a good man to be sad.

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.

The man who consecrates his hours by vigorous effort, and an honest aim, at once he draws the sting of life and Death; he walks with nature; and her paths are peace.

Nature delights in progress; in advance.

The soft whispers of the God in man.

[The] public path of life Is dirty.

Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.

What ardently we wish, we soon believe.

Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, "that my heart has bled."

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

And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?

Day buries day; month, month; and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.

We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields

Tomorrow is a satire on today, And shows its weakness.

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

Some wits, too, like oracles, deal in ambiguities, but not with equal success; for though ambiguities are the first excellence of an imposter, they are the last of a wit.

Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.

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

They build too low who build beneath the skies.

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man!... Midway from nothing to the Deity!

A land of levity is a land of guilt.

What is revenge but courage to call in our honor's debts, and wisdom to convert others' self-love into our own protection?

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.

Revere thyself, and yet thyself despise

Some go to Church, proud humbly to repent, And come back much more guilty than they went: One way they look, another way they steer, Pray to the Gods; but would have Mortals hear; And when their sins they set sincerely down, They'll find that their Religion has been one.

Procrastination is the thief of time; year after year it steals, till all are fled, and to the mercies of a moment leaves the vast concerns of an eternal state. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; at fifty chides his infamous delay, pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; in all the magnanimity of thought, resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same.

What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.

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

There buds the promise of celestial worth.

He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one; All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.

The man of wisdom is the man of years.

Too low they build who build below the skies.

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

Wouldst thou be famed? have those high acts in view, Brave men would act though scandal would ensue.

A God alone can comprehend a God.

The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.

The clouds may drop down titles and estates, and wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought.

Ah! what is human life? How, like the dial's tardy-moving shade, Day after day slides from us unperceiv'd! The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth; Too subtle is the movement to be seen; Yet soon the hour is up--and we are gone.

Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.

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

Friendship's the wine of life.

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

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

With fame, in just proportion, envy grows.

Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.

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

Fond man! the vision of a moment made! Dream of a dream! and shadow of a shade!

Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.

One eye on death, and one full fix'd on heaven.

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

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

Wishing of all employments is the worst

A dedication is a wooden leg.

Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor ; who lives to fancy, never can be rich.

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

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

Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?

Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.

The purpose firm is equal to the deed

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

A death-bed's a detector of the heart.

In 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.

Be wise to-day; 't is madness to defer.

Less base the fear of death than fear of life.

But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.

We nothing know, but what is marvellous; Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.

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

The spirit walks of every day deceased.

He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.

Men should press forward, in fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.

The house of laughter makes a house of woe.

How blessings brighten as they take their flight.

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.

When men of infamy to grandeur soar, They light a torch to show their shame the more.

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

The man that makes a character, makes foes.

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

It is great and manly to disdain disguise; it shows our spirit and proves our strength.

Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.

The booby father craves a booby son, And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.

Men before you have quit smoking - you can too!

Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.

Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.

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

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, how complicate, how wonderful is man! Distinguished link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the Deity! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory! A frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! Insect infinite! A worm! A God!

What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.

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

Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.