Edward Young

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.

And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?

And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?

He rams his quill with scandal and with scoff,
But 'tis so very foul, it won't go off.

He rams his quill with scandal and with scoff,
But 'tis so very foul, it won't go off.

Our birth is nothing but our death begun, As tapers waste the moment they take fire.

Our birth is nothing but our death begun, As tapers waste the moment they take fire.

Think nought a trifle, though it small appear;
Small sands the mountain, moments make the year,
And read more

Think nought a trifle, though it small appear;
Small sands the mountain, moments make the year,
And trifles life.