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Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Virtue
Fire
Soul
Children
Made
Revenge
Souls
Sun

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Where boasting ends, there dignity begins.
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By all means use some time to be alone.
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But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
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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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Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.
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Be wise to-day 't is madness to defer.
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Men are but men we did not make ourselves.
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The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.
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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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They most the world enjoy who least admire.
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There buds the promise of celestial worth.
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Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.
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When men of infamy to grandeur soar, They light a torch to show their shame the more.
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Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.
Edward Young
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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.
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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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Prayer ardent opens heaven.
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Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.
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Nature delights in progress in advance.
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How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man!... Midway from nothing to the Deity!
Edward Young