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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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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Thought
Soul
Sallies
Think
Manly
Thinking
Solitude
Noble
Virtue
Alone
Lost

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Time elaborately thrown away.
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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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The spirit walks of every day deceased.
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Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.
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Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.
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Man maketh a death which Nature never made.
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Praise, more divine than prayer prayer points our ready path to heaven praise is already there.
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Men are but men we did not make ourselves.
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Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.
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It calls Devotion! genuine growth of night! Devotion! Daughter of Astronomy! An undevout astronomer is mad!
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Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.
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Wishing of all employments is the worst
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The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
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An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave legions of angels can't confine me there.
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He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.
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Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.
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Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
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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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Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.
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Give me, indulgent gods with mind serene, And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene, No splendid poverty, no smiling care, No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there.
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