Quote

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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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Time
Hours
Note
Knell
Sound
Strikes
Aright
Give
Tongue
Departed
Take
Notes
Bell
Feel
Angel
Solemn
Feels
Loss
Spokes
Giving
Wise
Bells
Men
Heard
Spoke

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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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When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.
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How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man!... Midway from nothing to the Deity!
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Read nature nature is a friend to truth.
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A man I knew who lived upon a smile, And well it fed him he look'd plump and fair, While rankest venom foam'd through every vein.
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Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat defects of judgment, and the will subdue walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore of that vast ocean it must sail so soon.
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Pity swells the tide of love.
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The clouds may drop down titles and estates, and wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought.
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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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Wishing of all employments is the worst
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Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
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Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, That all men are about to live.
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What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
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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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A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
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By night an atheist half-believes in God.
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Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
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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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Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.
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Angels are men of a superior kind Angels are men in lighter habit clad.
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