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The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
Edward Young
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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Brutes
Quite
Literature
Men
Blushes
Blushing
Brute
More quotes by Edward Young
There buds the promise of celestial worth.
Edward Young
How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man!... Midway from nothing to the Deity!
Edward Young
Man wants little, nor that little long.
Edward Young
The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.
Edward Young
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.
Edward Young
There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
Edward Young
Oh, how portentous is prosperity! How comet-like, it threatens while it shines.
Edward Young
On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
Edward Young
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
Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes They love a train, they tread each other's heel.
Edward Young
Old men love novelties the last arriv'd Still pleases best the youngest steals their smiles.
Edward Young
A dedication is a wooden leg.
Edward Young
Be wise with speed a fool at forty is a fool indeed.
Edward Young
'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.
Edward Young
Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
Edward Young
When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.
Edward Young
But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
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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.
Edward Young
And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
Edward Young
A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
Edward Young