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How much a dunce that has been sent to roam, excels a dunce that has been kept at home.

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
Sent
Kept
Home
Much
Dunce
Excels
Dunces
Roam

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Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.
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How happy it is to believe, with a steadfast assurance, that our petitions are heard even while we are making them and how delightful to meet with a proof of it in the effectual and actual grant of them.
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She that asks Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, And hates their coming.
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They fix attention, heedless of your pain, With oaths like rivets forced into the brain And e'en when sober truth prevails throughout, They swear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt.
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Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.
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Blest be the art that can immortalize,--the art that baffles time's tyrannic claim to quench it.
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Misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case.
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War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
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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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Even in the stifling bosom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothes the rich possessor much consol'd, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Or nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates.
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This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, Built as it has been in our waning years, A rest afforded to our weary feet, Preliminary to - the last retreat.
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Events of all sorts creep or fly exactly as God pleases.
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No traveler e'er reached that blest abode who found not thorns and briers in his road.
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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust Him for His grace Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
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And diff'ring judgments serve but to declare that truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where.
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If my resolution to be a great man was half so strong as it is to despise the shame of being a little one.
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Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.
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This fond attachment to the well-known place Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day.
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There is a mixture of evil in everything we do indulgence encourages us to encroach, while we Crabbe exercise the rights of children, we become childish.
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I would not enter on my list of friends (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
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