Top 240 Quotes & Sayings by Edward Young - Page 2

Truth never was indebted to a lie

Men should press forward, in fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.

Nature delights in progress; in advance.

A foe to God ne'er was true friend to man, Some sinister intent taints all he does.

Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?

Wouldst thou be famed? have those high acts in view, Brave men would act though scandal would ensue.

The man of wisdom is the man of years.

Day buries day; month, month; and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, "That all men are about to live."

We nothing know, but what is marvellous; Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.

'T is impious in a good man to be sad.

'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.

Praise, more divine than prayer; prayer points our ready path to heaven; praise is already there.

It is great and manly to disdain disguise; it shows our spirit and proves our strength.

But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.

They build too low who build beneath the skies.

We are not all great because we are inspired, but we feel great because we are.

Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.

Let no man trust the first false step of guilt; it hangs upon a precipice, whose steep descent in last perdition ends.

By night an atheist half-believes in God.

Our birth is nothing but our death begun; As tapers waste, that instant they take fire.

Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, how complicate, how wonderful is man! Distinguished link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the Deity! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory! A frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! Insect infinite! A worm! A God!

The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.

A God alone can comprehend a God.

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

Born originals, how comes it to pass that we die copies? That meddling ape imitation, as soon as we come to years of indiscretion, (so let me speak,) snatches the pen, and blots out nature's mark of separation, cancels her kind intention, destroys all mental individuality. The lettered world no longer consists of singulars: it is a medley, a mass; and a hundred books, at bottom, are but one.

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.

Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?

Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.

Fame is the shade of immortality, And in itself a shadow. Soon as caught, Contemn'd; it shrinks to nothing in the grasp.

Wishing of all employments is the worst

Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave that wears a title lies.

What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.

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.

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.

Fond man! the vision of a moment made! Dream of a dream! and shadow of a shade!

Men before you have quit smoking - you can too!

The booby father craves a booby son, And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.

A death-bed's a detector of the heart.

Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.

What ardently we wish, we soon believe.

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.

Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.

Like our shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.

Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.

Ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.

Affliction is a good man's shining time.

Unlearned men of books assume the care, As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.

It calls Devotion! genuine growth of night! Devotion! Daughter of Astronomy! An undevout astronomer is mad!

Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat defects of judgment, and the will subdue; walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore of that vast ocean it must sail so soon.

We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields

Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.

Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other's heel.

How science dwindles, and how volumes swell, How commentators each dark passage shun, And hold their farthing candle to the sun!

What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.

Pity swells the tide of love.

Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!