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No one was ever scolded out of their sins.

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
Sins
Sin
Ever
Scolded

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What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.
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Defend me, therefore, common sense, say From reveries so airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up.
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The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, / whom, snoring, she disturbs.
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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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How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.
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[My kitten] is dressed in a tortoise-shell suit, and I know you will delight in her.
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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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Domestic happiness, thou only bliss Of paradise that has surviv'd the fall!
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All truth is precious, if not all divine and what dilates the powers must needs refine.
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The earth was made so various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.
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Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart To modest cheeks, and borrowed one from art.
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Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, / Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost.
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Some drill and bore The solid earth, and from the strata there Extract a register, by which we learn, That he who made it, and reveal'd its date To Moses, was mistaken in its age.
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Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.
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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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Tis Providence alone secures In every change both mine and yours.
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A teacher should be sparing of his smile.
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Twere better to be born a stone Of ruder shape, and feeling none, Than with a tenderness like mine And sensibilities so fine! Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell Forever in my native shell, Ordained to move when others please, Not for my own content or ease But toss'd and buffeted about, Now in the water and now out.
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My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
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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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