Edward Young (3 July 1683 – 5 April 1765) was an English poet, best remembered for Night-Thoughts.
Born Originals, how comes it to pass that we die Copies?
Less base the fear of death than fear of life.
Friendship's the wine of life.
He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.
The blood will follow where the knife is driven, The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.
Distinguisht Link in Being's endless Chain! Midway from Nothing to the Deity!
How science dwindles, and how volumes swell, How commentators each dark passage shun, And hold their farthing candle to the sun!
'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.
Who can take Death's portrait? The tyrant never sat.
In an active life is sown the seed of wisdom; but he who reflects not, never reaps; has no harvest from it, but carries the burden of age without the wages of experience; nor knows himself old, but from his infirmities, the parish register, and the contempt of mankind. And age, if it has not esteem, has nothing.
Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.
It calls Devotion! genuine growth of night! Devotion! Daughter of Astronomy! An undevout astronomer is mad!
And friend received with thumps upon the back.
Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.
Ah! what is human life? How, like the dial's tardy-moving shade, Day after day slides from us unperceiv'd! The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth; Too subtle is the movement to be seen; Yet soon the hour is up--and we are gone.
Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.
Tomorrow is a satire on today, And shows its weakness.
It is great and manly to disdain disguise; it shows our spirit and proves our strength.