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'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Wise
Asks
Talk
Hours
Bore
Heaven
Greatly
Past
Bores
Report
Reports

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But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
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Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.
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A man I knew who lived upon a smile, And well it fed him he look'd plump and fair, While rankest venom foam'd through every vein.
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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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Think naught a trifle, though it small appear Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.
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Wonder is involuntary praise.
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Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor who lives to fancy, never can be rich.
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The man of wisdom is the man of years.
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A land of levity is a land of guilt.
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Ambition! powerful source of good and ill!
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Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
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Man maketh a death which Nature never made.
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Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.
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Be wise to-day 't is madness to defer.
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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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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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When men of infamy to grandeur soar, They light a torch to show their shame the more.
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Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat defects of judgment, and the will subdue walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore of that vast ocean it must sail so soon.
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Be wise with speed a fool at forty is a fool indeed.
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Angels are men of a superior kind Angels are men in lighter habit clad.
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