Edward Young

Is there a tongue like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages without winding up?

Is there a tongue like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages without winding up?

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

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

Amid my list of blessings infinite,
Stands this the foremost, "That my heart has bled."

Amid my list of blessings infinite,
Stands this the foremost, "That my heart has bled."

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.

Give me, indulgent gods! with mind serene,
And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene;
No splendid read more

Give me, indulgent gods! with mind serene,
And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene;
No splendid poverty, no smiling care,
No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there.