Edward Young

For her own breakfast she'll project a scheme, Nor take her tea without a strategem.

With skill she vibrates her eternal tongue, Forever most divinely in the wrong.

And waste their music on the savage race.

Be wise with speed; A fool at forty is a fool indeed.

Where Nature’s end of language is declin’d, And men talk only to conceal the mind.

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

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

None think the great unhappy but the great.

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge, Produce their debt instead of their discharge.

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

Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote.

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

When the Law shows her teeth, but dares not bite.

And friend received with thumps upon the back.

There buds the promise of celestial worth.

Time elaborately thrown away.

Accept a miracle instead of wit,— See two dull lines with Stanhope's pencil writ.

He weeps! the falling drop puts out the sun; He sighs! the sigh earth's deep foundation shakes. If in His love so terrible, what then His wrath inflamed?

Too low they build who build beneath the stars.

As Love alone can exquisitely bless, Love only feels the marvellous of pain; Opens new veins of torture in the soul, And wakes the nerve where agonies are born.

Their feet through faithless leather met the dirt, And oftener chang'd their principles than shirt.

The man that makes a character makes foes.

In youth, what disappointments of our own making: in age, what disappointments from the nature of things.

The blood will follow where the knife is driven, The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear.