Edward Young

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.

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool,
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty, read more

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool,
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty, chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve,
In all the magnanimity of thought;
Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same.
And why? because he thinks himself immortal,
All men think all men mortal but themselves.

The man of wisdom is the man of years.

The man of wisdom is the man of years.

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.

How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adore
That painted coat, which Joseph never wore!
He shows, read more

How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adore
That painted coat, which Joseph never wore!
He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin,
That touch'd the ruff, that touched Queen Bess' chin.