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The blood will follow where the knife is driven, The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear.

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Blood
Quiver
Results
Knife
Tear
Knives
Flesh
Driven
Tears
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More quotes by Edward Young

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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
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Like our shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.
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'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.
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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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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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By all means use some time to be alone.
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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.
Edward Young
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Day buries day month, month and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.
Edward Young
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A dedication is a wooden leg.
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Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.
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When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.
Edward Young
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The soft whispers of the God in man.
Edward Young
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Men are but men we did not make ourselves.
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As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
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O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.
Edward Young
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The spirit walks of every day deceased.
Edward Young
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Man maketh a death which Nature never made.
Edward Young
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The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.
Edward Young
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Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes They love a train, they tread each other's heel.
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There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
Edward Young