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Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Disease
Wells
Feign
Well
Idiots
Make
Diseases
Polite
Unfortunately
Idiot
Vain

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The course of Nature is the art of God
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Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.
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Be wise with speed a fool at forty is a fool indeed.
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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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Like our shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.
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The qualities all in a bee that we meet, In an epigram never should fail The body should always be little and sweet, And a sting should be felt in its tail.
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Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.
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We nothing know, but what is marvellous Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.
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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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Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.
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Nature delights in progress in advance.
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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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How blessings brighten as they take their flight.
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Day buries day month, month and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.
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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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Truth never was indebted to a lie
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Friendship's the wine of life.
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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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When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees
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There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
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