Edward Young Quotes - Page 6

Prayer ardent opens heaven.

Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast.

And friend received with thumps upon the back.

Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!

Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes.

The maid that loves goes out to sea upon a shattered plank, and puts her trust in miracles for safety.

Beautiful as sweet, And young as beautiful, and soft as young, And gay as soft, and innocent as gay!

Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.

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

Distinguisht Link in Being's endless Chain! Midway from Nothing to the Deity!

What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!

Affliction is the good man's shining scene; prosperity conceals his brightest ray; as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.

On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.

The spirit walks of every day deceased.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.

Unlearned men of books assume the care, As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.

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.

With fame, in just proportion, envy grows.

Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

One to destroy, is murder by the law; and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; to murder thousands, takes a specious name, 'War's glorious art', and gives immortal fame.

There is nothing of which men are more liberal than their good advice, be their stock of it ever so small; because it seems to carry in it an intimation of their own influence, importance or worth.

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

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.

As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.