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When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Quits
Bless
Quitting
Despair
Heaven
Pain

More quotes by Edward Young

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The man of wisdom is the man of years.
Edward Young
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Fond man! the vision of a moment made! Dream of a dream! and shadow of a shade!
Edward Young
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By night an atheist half-believes in God.
Edward Young
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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.
Edward Young
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There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
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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Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.
Edward Young
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Time elaborately thrown away.
Edward Young
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A tardy vengeance shares the tyrant's guilt.
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
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The soft whispers of the God in man.
Edward Young
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Praise, more divine than prayer prayer points our ready path to heaven praise is already there.
Edward Young
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Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.
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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Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.
Edward Young
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Read nature nature is a friend to truth.
Edward Young
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What ardently we wish, we soon believe.
Edward Young
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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.
Edward Young
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What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind And while it satisfies, it censures too.
Edward Young
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Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, that my heart has bled.
Edward Young