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Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor who lives to fancy, never can be rich.

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Poor
Lives
Nature
Never
Rarely
Fancy
Rich

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The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
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The man of wisdom is the man of years.
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Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.
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Men before you have quit smoking - you can too!
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The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.
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Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.
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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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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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A God alone can comprehend a God.
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The spirit walks of every day deceased.
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Where boasting ends, there dignity begins.
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As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
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But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
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We nothing know, but what is marvellous Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.
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And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
Edward Young
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Unlearned men of books assume the care, As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.
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Britannia's shame! There took her gloomy flight, On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul . Less base the fear of death than fear of life. O Britain! infamous for suicide.
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Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
Edward Young
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Be wise with speed a fool at forty is a fool indeed.
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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.
Edward Young