Edward Young

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.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, "That all men are about to live."

You are so witty, profligate, and thin, At once we think thee Milton, Death, and Sin.

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

All men think all men mortal but themselves.

He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.

Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.

Still seems it strange, that thou shouldst live forever: Is it less strange, that thou shouldst live at all? This is a miracle, and that no more.

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

Final Ruin fiercely drives Her plowshare o'er creation.