Quote

Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.

William Cowper

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William Cowper
Age: 68 †
Born: 1731
Born: November 26
Died: 1800
Died: April 25
Hymnwriter
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Translator
Writer
Berkhamsted
Hertfordshire
Leads
Treads
Way
Instinct
Meaner
Things
Mistakes
Chakra
Men
Step
Stray
Steps
Whilst
Mistake
Reasoning
Rarely
Known
Intuition
Every

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Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.
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He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not color'd like his own, and having pow'r T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
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A man renowned for repartee will seldom scruple to make free with friendship's finest feeling, will thrust a dagger at your breast, and say he wounded you in jest, by way of balm for healing.
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The man that hails you Tom or Jack, and proves by thumps upon your back how he esteems your merit, is such a friend, that one had need be very much his friend indeed to pardon or to bear it.
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We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
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How readily we wish time spent revoked, that we might try the ground again where once--through inexperience, as we now perceive--we missed that happiness we might have found!
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But animated nature sweeter still, to soothe and satisfy the human ear.
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In indolent vacuity of thought.
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What we admire we praise and when we praise, Advance it into notice, that its worth Acknowledged, others may admire it too.
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Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.
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Dejection of spirits, which may have prevented many a man from becoming an author, made me one. I find constant employment necessary, and therefore take care to be constantly employed. . . . When I can find no other occupation, I think and when I think, I am very apt to do it in rhyme.
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But what is truth? 'Twas Pilate's question put To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply.
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She that asks Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, And hates their coming.
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There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.
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Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
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True modesty is a discerning grace And only blushes in the proper place But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, Where 'tis a shame to be asham'd t' appear: Humility the parent of the first, The last by vanity produc'd and nurs'd.
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As if the world and they were hand and glove.
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The earth was made so various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.
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Come, evening, once again, season of peace Return, sweet evening, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron step, slow moving, while the night Treads on thy sweeping train one hand employ'd In letting fall the curtain of repose On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day.
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Tis Providence alone secures In every change both mine and yours.
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