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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.

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
Real
Enter
Polished
Would
Wanting
Worms
Men
Fine
Sensibility
Feet
Sets
Though
List
Friends
Foot
Graced
Upon
Lists
Needlessly
Sense
Manners
Worm

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Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilirate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature.
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Anticipated rents, and bills unpaid, Force many a shining youth into the shade, Not to redeem his time, but his estate, And play the fool, but at the cheaper rate.
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Good sense, good health, good conscience, and good fame,--all these belong to virtue, and all prove that virtue has a title to your love.
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How shall I speak thee, or thy power address Thou God of our idolatry, the Press. . . . . Like Eden's dead probationary tree, Knowledge of good and evil is from thee.
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O Winter! ruler of the inverted year, . . . I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed Retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening, know.
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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
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There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.
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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds you so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break, With blessings on your head
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Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa around, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in
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For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not?
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But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease.
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Give what thou canst, without Thee we are poor And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.
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The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, Is always happy, reign whoever may, And laughs the sense of mis'ry far away.
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Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavor.
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Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid, In every bosom where her nest is made, Hatched by the beams of truth, denies him rest, And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.
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Absence of occupation is not rest A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed.
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Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
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Some men make gain a fountain, whence proceeds A stream of liberal and heroic deeds The swell of pity, not to be confined Within the scanty limits of the mind.
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War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
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