Maxioms by Edward Young
Think nought a trifle, though it small appear;
Small sands the mountain, moments make the year,
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Think nought a trifle, though it small appear;
Small sands the mountain, moments make the year,
And trifles life.
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.
The man of wisdom is the man of years.
The man of wisdom is the man of years.
He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one;
All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.
He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one;
All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.
The melancholy ghosts of dead renown,
Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.
The melancholy ghosts of dead renown,
Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.
