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An epigram is but a feeble thing - With straw in tail, stuck there by way of sting.

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
Tail
Tails
Stuck
Epigram
Thing
Epigrams
Way
Straw
Sting
Straws
Feeble

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Where men of judgment creep and feel their way, The positive pronounce without dismay.
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He that runs may read.
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But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.
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The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow.
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Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.
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A teacher should be sparing of his smile.
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Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.
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I pity bashful men, who feel the pain Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain, And bear the marks upon a blushing face, OF needless shame, and self-impos'd disgrace.
William Cowper
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And in that hour, The seeds of cruelty, that since have swell'd To such gigantic and enormous growth, Were sown in human nature's fruitful soil. Hence date the persecution and the pain That man inflicts on all inferior kinds, Regardless of their plaints.
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Slaves cannot breathe in England if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
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Some to the fascination of a name, Surrender judgment hoodwinked.
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We are never more in danger than when we think ourselves most secure, nor in reality more secure than when we seem to be most in danger.
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When nations are to perish in their sins, 'tis in the Church the leprosy begins.
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For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not?
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In indolent vacuity of thought.
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But poverty, with most who whimper forth Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe The effect of laziness, or sottish write.
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The Spirit breathes upon the Word and brings the truth to sight.
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Religion, richest favor of the skies.
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Unless a love of virtue light the flame, Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame He hides behind a magisterial air He own offences, and strips others' bare.
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Call'd to the temple of impure delight He that abstains, and he alone, does right. If a wish wander that way, call it home He cannot long be safe whose wishes roam.
William Cowper