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Think naught a trifle, though it small appear Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Moments
Naught
Years
Trifles
Make
Stands
Think
Appear
Thinking
Mountain
Life
Small
Year
Though
Trifle

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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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None think the great unhappy, but the great.
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Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
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But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
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Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor who lives to fancy, never can be rich.
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By all means use some time to be alone.
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Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.
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This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.
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The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
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The clouds may drop down titles and estates, and wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought.
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Men are but men we did not make ourselves.
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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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When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees
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Prayer ardent opens heaven.
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The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.
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Youth is not rich in time it may be poor Part with it as with money, sparing pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds they can tell.
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Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.
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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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I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) For fevers take an opera in June: And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold, A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold.
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And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
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