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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.

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Thinking
Loves
Midnight
Perhaps
Park
Cold
Reign
Practice
Tunes
Fevers
Though
Sickness
Fever
Known
Parks
June
Take
Opera
Tune
Think
Lady
Bold

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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.
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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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Think naught a trifle, though it small appear Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.
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But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
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This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.
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Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
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We nothing know, but what is marvellous Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.
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One to destroy, is murder by the law and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe to murder thousands, takes a specious name, 'War's glorious art', and gives immortal fame.
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Who gives an empire, by the gift defeats All end of giving and procures contempt Instead of gratitude.
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A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
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Praise, more divine than prayer prayer points our ready path to heaven praise is already there.
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Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.
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When men of infamy to grandeur soar, They light a torch to show their shame the more.
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Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.
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On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
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Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
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Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.
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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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Less base the fear of death than fear of life.
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The man that makes a character, makes foes.
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