Edward Young (1683 – 1765)
English poet, best remembered for Night Thoughts.
Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew,
She sparkled, was exhal'd and went to heaven.
Revere thyself, and yet thyself despise.
Virtue alone has majesty in death.
Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed:
Who does the best his circumstance allows
Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.
In youth, what disappointments of our own making: in age, what disappointments from the nature of things.
The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun,
With whom revenge is virtue.
Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform.
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.
"I've lost a day!"—the prince who nobly cried,
Had been an emperor without his crown.
Tomorrow is a satire on today,
And shows its weakness.
And all may do what has by man been done.
Like our shadows,
Our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.
Time flies, death urges, knells call, Heaven invites,
Hell threatens.
Less base the fear of death than fear of life.
Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep!
Be wise with speed;
A fool at forty is a fool indeed.
The love of praise, howe'er concealed by art,
Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.