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Wishing of all employments is the worst

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Worst
Literature
Wish
Employments
Wishing
Employment

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Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.
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Fond man! the vision of a moment made! Dream of a dream! and shadow of a shade!
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What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!
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Like our shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.
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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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Pygmies are pygmies still, though percht on Alps And pyramids are pyramids in vales. Each man makes his own stature, builds himself. Virtue alone outbuilds the Pyramids Her monuments shall last when Egypt's fall.
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By all means use some time to be alone.
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He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.
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Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.
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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.
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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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Give me, indulgent gods with mind serene, And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene, No splendid poverty, no smiling care, No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there.
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It calls Devotion! genuine growth of night! Devotion! Daughter of Astronomy! An undevout astronomer is mad!
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It is great and manly to disdain disguise it shows our spirit and proves our strength.
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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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Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.
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And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
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As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
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Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.
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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.
Edward Young