Edward Young

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.

While man is growing, life is in decrease; And cradles rock us nearer to the tomb. Our birth is nothing but our death begun. As tapers waste the moment they take fire.

The man that makes a character makes foes.

There is nothing of which men are more liberal than their good advice, be their stock of it ever so small; because it seems to carry in it an intimation of their own influence, importance or worth.

Affliction is the good man's shining scene; prosperity conceals his brightest ray; as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.

Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, "that my heart has bled."

Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat defects of judgment, and the will subdue; walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore of that vast ocean it must sail so soon.

Like our shadows, Our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.

Too low they build who build beneath the stars.

By night an atheist half believes a God.