Date: 1742

"How was my heart incrusted by the world!"

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1742

"But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, / Soon close; where pass'd the shaft, no trace is found. / As from the wing no scar the sky retains, / The parted wave no furrow from the keel, / So dies in human hearts the thought of death."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1743

"What awful joy! what mental liberty!"

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1743

"Why are friends ravish'd from us? 'Tis to bind, / By soft Affection's ties, on human hearts, / The thought of death, which Reason, too supine, / Or misemploy'd, so rarely fastens there."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1743

"No; in pity sent, / To melt him down, like wax, and then impress, / Indelible, Death's image on his heart; / Bleeding for others, trembling for himself."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1743

"Passion, blind Passion, impotently pours / Tears that deserve more tears, while Reason sleeps, / Or gazes, like an idiot, unconcern'd, / Nor comprehends the meaning of the storm."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1743

"Though grey our heads, our thoughts and aims are green; / Like damaged clocks, whose hand and bell dissent; / Folly sings six, while Nature points at twelve."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1743

"Your learning, like the lunar beam, affords / Light, but not heat; it leaves you undevout, / Frozen at heart, while speculation shines."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"A world, where Lust of Pleasure, Grandeur, Gold, / Three demons that divide its realms between them, / With strokes alternate buffet to and fro / Man's restless heart, their sport, their flying ball; / Till with the giddy circle sick and tired, / It pants for peace, and drops into despair."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"Such is the world Lorenzo's wisdom wooes, / And on its thorny pillow seeks repose; / A pillow which, like opiates ill-prepared, / Intoxicates, but not composes; fills / The visionary mind with gay chimeras, / All the wild trash of sleep, without the rest; / What unfeign'd travail, and what dream...

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)