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Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Psychology
Sun
Air
Thoughts
Like
Bales
Spoil
Shut

More quotes by Edward Young

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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.
Edward Young
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Prayer ardent opens 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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Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.
Edward Young
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What ardently we wish, we soon believe.
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How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man!... Midway from nothing to the Deity!
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'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.
Edward Young
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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.
Edward Young
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Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
Edward Young
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Who gives an empire, by the gift defeats All end of giving and procures contempt Instead of gratitude.
Edward Young
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When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees
Edward Young
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By all means use some time to be alone.
Edward Young
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Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
Edward Young
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How blessings brighten as they take their flight.
Edward Young
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Man maketh a death which Nature never made.
Edward Young
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The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done
Edward Young
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Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.
Edward Young
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Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly angels could no more.
Edward Young
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Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.
Edward Young
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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.
Edward Young