Edward Young
Edward Young
Edward Youngwas an English poet, best remembered for Night-Thoughts...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth3 July 1683
song lying dust
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.
men conscience
The soft whispers of the God in man.
wise lying skills
A dearth of words a woman need not fear; But 'tis a task indeed to learn to hear: In that the skill of conversation lies; That shows and makes you both polite and wise.
men caught cruelty
Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.
echoes whispering world
The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.
sweet quality body
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.
hours eternity poor
And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
race doe glory
Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.
hope two miracle
Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.
splinters fame satire
Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
dark dull sun
However smothered under former negligence, or scattered through the dull, dark mass of common thoughts - let thy genius rise as the sun from chaos.
cutting sound beam
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.
age life-is esteem
In an active life is sown the seed of wisdom... And age, if it has not esteem, has nothing.
book years individuality
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.