Maxioms by Edward Young
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.
A man of pleasure is a man of pains.
A man of pleasure is a man of pains.
A soul without reflection, like a pile
Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
A soul without reflection, like a pile
Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
Thou art so witty, profligate and thin,
At once we think thee Satan, Death and Sin.
Thou art so witty, profligate and thin,
At once we think thee Satan, Death and Sin.
