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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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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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Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.
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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.
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Praise, more divine than prayer prayer points our ready path to heaven praise is already there.
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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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Truth never was indebted to a lie
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What ardently we wish, we soon believe.
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Fond man! the vision of a moment made! Dream of a dream! and shadow of a shade!
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He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.
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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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A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
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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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Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.
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Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.
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Ambition! powerful source of good and ill!
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A tardy vengeance shares the tyrant's guilt.
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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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The blood will follow where the knife is driven, The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear.
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Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
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Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
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Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
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