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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
Soul
Amid
Life
Pains
Emptiness
Immortality
Fill
Amply
Comfort
Abasement
Alone
Performs
Pain
Elevate

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Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
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Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.
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Pity swells the tide of love.
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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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The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.
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It is great and manly to disdain disguise it shows our spirit and proves our strength.
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Affliction is a good man's shining time.
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Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
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At thirty, man suspects himself a fool Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.
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Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.
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What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
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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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A Christian is the highest style of man.
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Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor who lives to fancy, never can be rich.
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How blessings brighten as they take their flight.
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Man maketh a death which Nature never made.
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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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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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Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.
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Friendship's the wine of life.
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