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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.

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Time
Poor
Beds
Moment
Purchase
Death
Bed
Tell
Youth
Moments
Pay
Money
Worth
Part
Rich
May
Asks
Sparing

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Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.
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Pygmies are pygmies still, though percht on Alps And pyramids are pyramids in vales. Each man makes his own stature, builds himself. Virtue alone outbuilds the Pyramids Her monuments shall last when Egypt's fall.
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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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Unlearned men of books assume the care, As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.
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He sins against this life, who slights the next.
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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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Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
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O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.
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When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.
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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 clouds may drop down titles and estates, and wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought.
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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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Men before you have quit smoking - you can too!
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Oh, how portentous is prosperity! How comet-like, it threatens while it shines.
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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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On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
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Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
Edward Young
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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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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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What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
Edward Young