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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
Make
Diseases
Polite
Unfortunately
Idiot
Vain
Disease
Wells
Feign
Well
Idiots

More quotes by Edward Young

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One to destroy, is murder by the law and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe to murder thousands, takes a specious name, 'War's glorious art', and gives immortal fame.
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Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.
Edward Young
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The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
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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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Virtue alone has majesty in death.
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What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!
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Fame is the shade of immortality, And in itself a shadow. Soon as caught, Contemn'd it shrinks to nothing in the grasp.
Edward Young
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It calls Devotion! genuine growth of night! Devotion! Daughter of Astronomy! An undevout astronomer is mad!
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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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What ardently we wish, we soon believe.
Edward Young
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The soft whispers of the God in man.
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The spirit walks of every day deceased.
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Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, That all men are about to live.
Edward Young
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What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind And while it satisfies, it censures too.
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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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Britannia's shame! There took her gloomy flight, On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul . Less base the fear of death than fear of life. O Britain! infamous for suicide.
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The man that makes a character, makes foes.
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Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.
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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.
Edward Young
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Prayer ardent opens heaven.
Edward Young