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Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Emptiness
Immortality
Fill
Amply
Comfort
Abasement
Alone
Performs
Pain
Elevate
Soul
Amid
Life
Pains

More quotes by Edward Young

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Think naught a trifle, though it small appear Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.
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Praise, more divine than prayer prayer points our ready path to heaven praise is already there.
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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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The purpose firm is equal to the deed
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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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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.
Edward Young
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The soft whispers of the God in man.
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The clouds may drop down titles and estates, and wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought.
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The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
Edward Young
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It is great and manly to disdain disguise it shows our spirit and proves our strength.
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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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Be wise to-day 't is madness to defer.
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Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
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Oh, how portentous is prosperity! How comet-like, it threatens while it shines.
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A land of levity is a land of guilt.
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It calls Devotion! genuine growth of night! Devotion! Daughter of Astronomy! An undevout astronomer is mad!
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The man of wisdom is the man of years.
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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.
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Midway from Nothing to the Deity!
Edward Young
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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