Date: 1745

"Thy Thoughts are vagabonds; all outward-bound, / Mid sands, and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure; / If gain'd, dear-bought; and better miss'd than gain'd."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"Fancy and Sense from an infected shore, / Thy cargo bring; and pestilence the prize."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"Imagination is the Paphian shop, / Where feeble Happiness, like Vulcan, lame, / Bids foul Ideas, in their dark recess, / And hot as hell, (which kindled the black fires,) / With wanton art, those fatal arrows form / Which murder all thy time, health, wealth, and fame."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"Wouldst thou receive them, other Thoughts there are, / On angel-wing, descending from above, / Which these, with art Divine, would counterwork, / And form celestial armour for thy peace."<

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"Give Pleasure's name to nought but what has pass'd / Th' authentic seal of Reason, (which, like Yorke, / Demurs on what it passes,) and defies / The tooth of Time; when pass'd, a pleasure still; / Dearer on trial, lovelier for its age, / And doubly to be prized, as it promotes / Our future, whil...

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"With aspect mild, and elevated eye, / Behold him seated on a mount serene, / Above the fogs of Sense, and Passion's storm: / All the black cares and tumults of this life, / Like harmless thunders breaking at his feet, / Excite his pity, not impair his peace."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"His appetite wears Reason's golden chain, / And finds in due restraint its luxury."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"His passion, like an eagle well reclaim'd, / Is taught to fly at nought but infinite."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"His understanding 'scapes the common cloud / Of fumes arising from a boiling breast."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"Each act, each thought, he questions, "What its weight, / Its colour what, a thousand ages hence?" / And what it there appears, he deems it now. / Hence, pure are the recesses of his soul; / The god-like man has nothing to conceal."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)