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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
Idiot
Vain
Disease
Wells
Feign
Well
Idiots
Make
Diseases
Polite
Unfortunately

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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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When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.
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Old men love novelties the last arriv'd Still pleases best the youngest steals their smiles.
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Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.
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The man who consecrates his hours by vigorous effort, and an honest aim, at once he draws the sting of life and Death he walks with nature and her paths are peace.
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As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
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The soft whispers of the God in man.
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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.
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Virtue alone has majesty in death.
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Nature delights in progress in advance.
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Read nature nature is a friend to truth.
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And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
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The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.
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Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes They love a train, they tread each other's heel.
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Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.
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On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
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Wishing of all employments is the worst
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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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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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What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!
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