Edward Young (3 July 1683 – 5 April 1765) was an English poet, best remembered for Night-Thoughts.
The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.
What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
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.
The clouds may drop down titles and estates, and wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought.
Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.
We push time from us, and we wish him back; * * * * * * Life we think long and short; death seek and shun.
Born Originals, how comes it to pass that we die Copies?
The man of wisdom is the man of years.
Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave that wears a title lies.
[The] public path of life Is dirty.
Distinguisht Link in Being's endless Chain! Midway from Nothing to the Deity!
Let no man trust the first false step of guilt; it hangs upon a precipice, whose steep descent in last perdition ends.
The soul of man was made to walk the skies.
Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.
Mine is the night, with all her stars.
With fame, in just proportion, envy grows.
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.
Friendship's the wine of life.
But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten'd indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.
'T is impious in a good man to be sad.