Edward Young (3 July 1683 – 5 April 1765) was an English poet, best remembered for Night-Thoughts.
An undevout astronomer is mad.
At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.
The man of wisdom is the man of years.
In chambers deep, Where waters sleep, What unknown treasures pave the floor.
Procrastination is the thief of time; year after year it steals, till all are fled, and to the mercies of a moment leaves the vast concerns of an eternal state. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; at fifty chides his infamous delay, pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; in all the magnanimity of thought, resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same.
A friend is worth all hazards we can run.
Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave that wears a title lies.
The future. . . seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done
Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.
The course of Nature is the art of God
If we did but know how little some enjoy of the great things that they possess, there would not be much envy in the world.
Nature delights in progress; in advance.
Wishing of all employments is the worst
What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, "That all men are about to live. "
When men of infamy to grandeur soar, They light a torch to show their shame the more.
We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies?
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.
Friendship's the wine of life.
Live now; be damn'd hereafter.