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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.

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
Half
Strong
Littles
Little
Great
Despise
Men
Resolution
Shame
Attitude

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For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not?
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Admirals extolled for standing still, or doing nothing with a deal of skill.
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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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Our love is principle, and has its root In reason, is judicious, manly, free.
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Hast thou not learnd what thou art often told, A truth still sacred, and believed of old, That no success attends on spears and swords Unblest, and that the battle is the Lords?
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There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.
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Satan trembles when he sees the weakest saint upon their knees.
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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 slaves of custom and established mode, With pack-horse constancy we keep the road Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells, True to the jingling of our leader's bells.
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What is it but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
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Some people are more nice than wise.
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But, oh, Thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art, of all Thy gifts, Thyself thy crown!
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I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute, From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
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The mind, relaxing into needful sport, Should turn to writers of an abler sort, Whose wit well managed, and whose classic style, Give truth a lustre, and make wisdom smile.
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A glory gilds the sacred page, Majestic like the sun, It gives a light to every age, It gives, but borrows none.
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Poor England! thou art a devoted deer, Beset with every ill but that of fear. The nations hunt all mock thee for a prey They swarm around thee, and thou stand'st at bay.
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How various his employments whom the world Calls idle and who justly in return Esteems that busy world an idler too!
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The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue.
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Remorse begets reform.
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Tea - the cups that cheer but not inebriate.
William Cowper