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And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Poor
Bounties
Bounty
Belong
Hour
Eternity
Hours

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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.
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Day buries day month, month and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.
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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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Give me, indulgent gods with mind serene, And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene, No splendid poverty, no smiling care, No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there.
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Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
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What ardently we wish, we soon believe.
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Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.
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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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Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.
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Wishing of all employments is the worst
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Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.
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Read nature nature is a friend to truth.
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Pity swells the tide of love.
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Where boasting ends, there dignity begins.
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A land of levity is a land of guilt.
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None think the great unhappy, but the great.
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Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, That all men are about to live.
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There is nothing of which men are more liberal than their good advice, be their stock of it ever so small because it seems to carry in it an intimation of their own influence, importance or worth.
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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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The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done
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