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Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Spilt
Procrastination
Suicide
Destroyed
Blood
Time

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Truth never was indebted to a lie
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Pity swells the tide of love.
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Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.
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The man that makes a character, makes foes.
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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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As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
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The man of wisdom is the man of years.
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We push time from us, and we wish him back * * * * * * Life we think long and short death seek and shun.
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A friend is worth all hazards we can run.
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When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.
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Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
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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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It calls Devotion! genuine growth of night! Devotion! Daughter of Astronomy! An undevout astronomer is mad!
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The man who consecrates his hours by vigorous effort, and an honest aim, at once he draws the sting of life and Death he walks with nature and her paths are peace.
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Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, that my heart has bled.
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A Christian is the highest style of man.
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Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.
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Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.
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Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly angels could no more.
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The spirit walks of every day deceased.
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