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

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Reflection
Literature
Running
Soul
Inhabitant
Without
Pile
Like
Ruin
Runs
Ruins

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On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
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He sins against this life, who slights the next.
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They most the world enjoy who least admire.
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And friend received with thumps upon the back.
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Wouldst thou be famed? have those high acts in view, Brave men would act though scandal would ensue.
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The spirit walks of every day deceased.
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Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.
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Men before you have quit smoking - you can too!
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The man that makes a character, makes foes.
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Fame is the shade of immortality, And in itself a shadow. Soon as caught, Contemn'd it shrinks to nothing in the grasp.
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Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes They love a train, they tread each other's heel.
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Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
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Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.
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We nothing know, but what is marvellous Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.
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There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
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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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Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.
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Unlearned men of books assume the care, As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.
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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.
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The man of wisdom is the man of years.
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