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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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Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.
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They most the world enjoy who least admire.
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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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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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Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
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Oh, how portentous is prosperity! How comet-like, it threatens while it shines.
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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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There buds the promise of celestial worth.
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But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
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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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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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Day buries day month, month and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.
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Prayer ardent opens heaven.
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Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.
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Where boasting ends, there dignity begins.
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What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
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Unlearned men of books assume the care, As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.
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Man wants little, nor that little long.
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One eye on death, and one full fix'd on heaven.
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