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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.

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Flew
Filled
Shaft
Moon
Slain
Peace
Thrice
Archer
Suffice
Horn
Horns

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As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
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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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The purpose firm is equal to the deed
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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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A Christian is the highest style of man.
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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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A God alone can comprehend a God.
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A tardy vengeance shares the tyrant's guilt.
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The spirit walks of every day deceased.
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Titles are marks of honest men, and wise The fool or knave that wears a title lies.
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The course of Nature is the art of God
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What ardently we wish, we soon believe.
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Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.
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Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.
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Who gives an empire, by the gift defeats All end of giving and procures contempt Instead of gratitude.
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Be wise with speed a fool at forty is a fool indeed.
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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 before you have quit smoking - you can too!
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Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling 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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