Quote

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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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Casts
Exposes
Apart
Helmet
Cutting
Beam
Sound
Saves
Sense
Brighter
Stills
Diamond
Still
Solid
Plume
Wit
Weighty

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Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.
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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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A land of levity is a land of guilt.
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Be wise with speed a fool at forty is a fool indeed.
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I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) For fevers take an opera in June: And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold, A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold.
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Wishing of all employments is the worst
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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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The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
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An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave legions of angels can't confine me there.
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Oh, how portentous is prosperity! How comet-like, it threatens while it shines.
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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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The man who consecrates his hours by vigorous effort, and an honest aim, at once he draws the sting of life and Death he walks with nature and her paths are peace.
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The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss it breaks at every breeze.
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Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, that my heart has bled.
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Man wants little, nor that little long.
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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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What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!
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Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.
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A dedication is a wooden leg.
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As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
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