Edward Young

A soul without reflection, like a pile
Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.

A soul without reflection, like a pile
Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.

He calls his wish, it comes; he sends it back,
And says he called another; that arrives,
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He calls his wish, it comes; he sends it back,
And says he called another; that arrives,
Meets the same welcome; yet he still calls on;
Till one calls him, who varies not his call,
But holds him fast, in chains of darkness bound,
Till Nature dies, and judgment sets him free;
A freedom far less welcome than this chain.

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume;
The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves.
Sense read more

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume;
The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves.
Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound;
When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam;
Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.

When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.

Their feet through faithless leather met the dirt,
And oftener chang'd their principles than shirt.

Their feet through faithless leather met the dirt,
And oftener chang'd their principles than shirt.