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Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.

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
Remorse
Fatal
Laid
Eggs
Regret
Pleasure

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Remorse begets reform.
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How much a dunce that has been sent to roam, excels a dunce that has been kept at home.
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The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, / whom, snoring, she disturbs.
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Heaven speed the canvas, gallantly unfurl'd, To furnish and accommodate a world, To give the Pole the produce of the sun, And knit the unsocial climates into one.
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To impute our recovery to medicine, and to carry our view no further, is to rob God of His honor, and is saying in effect that He has parted with the keys of life and death, and, by giving to a drug the power to heal us, has placed our lives out of His own reach.
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There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.
William Cowper
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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.
William Cowper
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And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, Till perjuries are common as bad pence, While thousands, careless of the damning sin, Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er look'd within?
William Cowper
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Th' embroid'ry of poetic dreams.
William Cowper
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When I thinkof my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.
William Cowper
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In the vast, and the minute, we see The unambiguous footsteps of the God, Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds.
William Cowper
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England with all thy faults, I love thee still-- My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee.
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Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
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How! leap into the pit our life to save? To save our life leap all into the grave.
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Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
William Cowper
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He that runs may read.
William Cowper
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The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.
William Cowper
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There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
William Cowper
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Pleasure admitted in undue degree, enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.
William Cowper
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There is in souls a sympathy with sounds: And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs, or martial, brisk or grave Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.
William Cowper