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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.

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Though
Pyramids
Lasts
Stature
Last
Builds
Fall
Monument
Makes
Egypt
Vales
Stills
Virtue
Pygmies
Still
Shall
Alps
Men
Alone
Monuments

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Angels are men of a superior kind Angels are men in lighter habit clad.
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What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
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Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.
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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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O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.
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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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A tardy vengeance shares the tyrant's guilt.
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Affliction is the good man's shining scene prosperity conceals his brightest ray as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
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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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Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.
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Truth never was indebted to a lie
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Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.
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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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Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, that my heart has bled.
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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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'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.
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Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.
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Horace appears in good humor while he censures, and therefore his censure has the more weight, as supposed to proceed from judgment and not from passion.
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As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
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