Edward Young

Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?

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. And why? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal but themselves.

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

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

'T is elder Scripture, writ by God's own hand,- Scripture authentic! uncorrupt by man.

One to destroy is murder by the law, And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; To murder thousands takes a specious name, War's glorious art, and gives immortal fame.

Pygmies are pygmies still, though percht on Alps; And pyramids are pyramids in vales. Each man makes his own stature, builds himself. Virtue alone outbuilds the Pyramids; Her monuments shall last when Egypt's fall.

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

The man that blushes is not quite a brute.

Man wants but little; nor that little, long.