Date: 1742

"Thought in the mine may come forth gold or dross; / When coin'd in word, we know its real worth. / If sterling, store it for thy future use; / 'Twill buy thee benefit; perhaps, renown."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1742

"Wisdom, though richer than Peruvian mines, / And sweeter than the sweet ambrosial hive,-- / What is she but the means of happiness?"

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1743

"And is devotion virtue? 'Tis compell'd: / What heart of stone but glows at thoughts like these?"

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1743

"In subtle Sophistry's laborious forge / Wit hammers out a reason new, that stoops / To sordid scenes, and greets them with applause."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1743

"Dearly pays the soul / For lodging ill; too dearly rents her clay."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1743

"We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile: / The mind turns fool before the cheek is dry. / Our quick-returning folly cancels all; / As the tide rushing rases what is writ / In yielding sands, and smooths the letter'd shore."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1743

"Some hearts, in secret hard, unapt to melt, / Struck by the magic of the public eye, / Like Moses' smitten rock, gush out amain."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1744

"Are there on earth (let me not call them men) / Who lodge a soul immortal in their breasts; / Unconscious as the mountain of its ore; / Or rock, of its inestimable gem? / When rocks shall melt, and mountains vanish, these / Shall know their treasure; treasure then no more.

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"Thus, a strange kind of cursed necessity / Brings down the sterling temper of his soul, / By base alloy, to bear the current stamp, / Below call'd Wisdom; sinks him into safety; / And brands him into credit with the world; / Where specious titles dignify disgrace, / And Nature's injuries are art...

— 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)