Edward Young Poems
- The Complaint: Or Night Though...
- Sleep Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep, - He, like...
- Ocean: An Ode. Concluding With... I. ...
- The Last Day (Excerpt) Sooner or later, in some future ...
- Penitence Great God! Greater than greatest! better than the ...
- Ocean: An Ode. Concluding With... What do we see! Cato ...
- Love Of Fame, The Universal Pa...
He was the son of Edward Young, later Dean of Salisbury, and was born at his father's rectory at Upham, near Winchester, where he was baptized on 3 July 1683. He was educated at Winchester College, and matriculated in 1702 at New College, Oxford. He later moved to Corpus Christi, and in 1708 was nominated by Archbishop Tenison to a law fellowship at All Souls. He took his degree of D.C.L. in 1719
His first publication was an Epistle to ... Lord Lansdoune (1713). It was followed by a Poem on the Last Day (1713), dedicated to Queen Anne; The Force of Religion: or Vanquished Love (1714), a poem on the execution of Lady Jane Grey and ... more »
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Quotationsmore quotations »
Illustrious examples engross, prejudice, and intimidate. They engross our attention, and so prevent a due inspection of ourselves; they prejudice our judgment in favour of their abilities, and so less...Edward Young (1683-1765), British poet, dramatist. Conjectures on Original Composition (1759).
''All men think all men mortal, but themselves.''Edward Young (1683-1765), British poet, playwright. repr. In Complete Works, ed. J. Doran (1968). Night 1, l. 424, The Complaint, or Night-Thoughts on...
''Procrastination is the thief of time.''Edward Young (1683-1765), British poet, playwright. repr. In Complete Works, ed. J. Doran (1968). Night 1, l. 393, The Complaint, or Night-Thoughts on...
''Our birth is nothing but our death begun.''Edward Young (1683-1765), British poet, playwright. repr. In Complete Works, ed. J. Doran (1968). Night 5, l. 718, The Complaint, or Night-Thoughts on...
Comments about Edward Young
The Complaint: Or Night Thoughts (Excerpt)
By Nature's law, what may be, may be now;
There's no prerogative in human hours.
In human hearts what bolder thought can rise,
Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn?
Where is to-morrow? In another world.
For numbers this is certain; the reverse
Is sure to none; and yet on this perhaps,
This peradventure, infamous for lies,
As on a rock of adamant we build
Our mountain hopes, spin out eternal schemes
As we the Fatal Sisters could out-spin,
And big with life's futurities, expire.
Not ev'n Philander had bespoke his shroud,