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Britannia's shame! There took her gloomy flight, On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul . Less base the fear of death than fear of life. O Britain! infamous for suicide.
Edward Young
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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Death
Flight
Britannia
Soul
Suicide
Impetuous
Life
Wings
Sullen
Shame
Infamous
Took
Gloomy
Less
Wing
Fear
Base
Black
Britain
More quotes by Edward Young
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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Wouldst thou be famed? have those high acts in view, Brave men would act though scandal would ensue.
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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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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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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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Time elaborately thrown away.
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It is great and manly to disdain disguise it shows our spirit and proves our strength.
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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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The blood will follow where the knife is driven, The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear.
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Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.
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And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
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Less base the fear of death than fear of life.
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And friend received with thumps upon the back.
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The course of Nature is the art of God
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Titles are marks of honest men, and wise The fool or knave that wears a title lies.
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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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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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'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.
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A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
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One eye on death, and one full fix'd on heaven.
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