Edward Joseph Young Quotes
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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.
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A tardy vengeance shares the tyrant's guilt.
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On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
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How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man!... Midway from nothing to the Deity!
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A prince indebted is a fortune made.
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When human glory rises high As human glory can; When though the king is truly great, Still greater is the man.
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Death joins us to the great majority.
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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.
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He that's ungrateful, has no guilt but one; All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.
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At thirty a 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.
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Of all the documents that have come down from antiquity, Genesis three is the only one that explains how the world became sinful and evil.
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Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.
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The clouds may drop down titles and estates, wealth may seek us; but wisdom must be sought.
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But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten'd indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.
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This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.
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Can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
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If he provokes a war, his empire shakes, And all her lofty glories nod to ruin.
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Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.
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Pride, like hooded hawks, in darkness soars From blindness bold, and towering to the skies.
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Day buries day; month, month; and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.
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What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.
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'Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.
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Our land is the dearer of our sacrifices. The blood of our martyrs sanctifies and enriches it. Their spirit passes into thousands of hearts. How costly is the progress of the race. It is only by the giving of life that we can have life.
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He rams his quill with scandal and with scoff, But 'tis so very foul, it won't go off.