Edward Joseph Young Quotes
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To Virtue's humblest son let none prefer Vice, tho' descended from the Conqueror.
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Will toys amuse, when med'cines cannot cure? When spirits ebb, when life's enchanting scenes Their lustre lose, and lessen in our sight, As lands and cities, with their glittering spires, To the poor shatter'd bark by sudden storm Thrown off to sea, and soon to perish there? Will toys amuse? No: thrones will then be toys, And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale.
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Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts; Inters celestial hopes without one sigh. Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon, Here pinions all his wishes.
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The love of praise, howe'er concealed by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart: The proud to gain it toils on toils endure, The modest shun it, but to make it sure.
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Old men love novelties; the last arriv'd Still pleases best; the youngest steals their smiles.
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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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Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It, makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.
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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 that lives in perpetual suspicion lives the life of a sentinel--of a sentinel never relieved, whose business it is to look out for and expect an enemy, which is an evil not very far short of perishing by him.
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Excellent creature! How my soul pants for thee!
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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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O sacred solitude! divine retreat! Choice of the prudent! envy of the great, By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade, We court fair wisdom, that celestial maid.
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Not all the pride of beauty; Those eyes, that tell us what the sun is made of; Those lips, whose touch is to be bought with life; Those hills of driven snow, which seen are felt: All these possessed are nought, but as they are The proof, the substance of an inward passion, And the rich plunder of a taken heart.
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A tender smile, our sorrows' only balm.
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In an active life is sown the seed of wisdom; but he who reflects not, never reaps.
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Our thoughts are heard in heaven.
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Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
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By night an atheist half believes in God.
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We rise in glory, as we sink in pride: Where boasting ends, there dignity begins.
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A man I knew who lived upon a smile, And well it fed him; he look'd plump and fair
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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.
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The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze.
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What angels guard, no longer dare neglect, Slighting thyself, affront not God's respect.
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Leisure is pain; takes off our chariot wheels; how heavily we drag the load of life!