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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
Suffice
Horn
Horns
Flew
Filled
Shaft
Moon
Slain
Peace
Thrice
Archer

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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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Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.
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Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
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Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
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Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.
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Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes They love a train, they tread each other's heel.
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Friendship's the wine of life.
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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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On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
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Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.
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A friend is worth all hazards we can run.
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We push time from us, and we wish him back * * * * * * Life we think long and short death seek and shun.
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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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It is great and manly to disdain disguise it shows our spirit and proves our strength.
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Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, That all men are about to live.
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They most the world enjoy who least admire.
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Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.
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Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
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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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None think the great unhappy, but the great.
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