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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
Well
Idiots
Make
Diseases
Polite
Unfortunately
Idiot
Vain
Disease
Wells
Feign

More quotes by Edward Young

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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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Oh, how portentous is prosperity! How comet-like, it threatens while it shines.
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Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
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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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Men are but men we did not make ourselves.
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Read nature nature is a friend to truth.
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Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes They love a train, they tread each other's heel.
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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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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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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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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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An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave legions of angels can't confine me there.
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How blessings brighten as they take their flight.
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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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Truth never was indebted to a lie
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Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.
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Tomorrow is a satire on today, And shows its weakness.
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This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.
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Who gives an empire, by the gift defeats All end of giving and procures contempt Instead of gratitude.
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The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done
Edward Young