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The beggarly last doit.

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
Poverty
Lasts
Last
Beggarly

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The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.
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Forced from home, and all its pleasures, afric coast I left forlorn to increase a stranger's treasures, o the raging billows borne. Men from England bought and sold me, paid my price in paltry gold but, though theirs they have enroll'd me, minds are never to be sold.
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God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.
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No wild enthusiast could rest, till half the world like him was possessed.
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Man disavows, and Deity disowns me: hell might afford my miseries a shelter therefore hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all bolted against me.
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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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I have a kitten,the drollest of all creatures that ever wore a cat's skin.
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Built God a church and laughed His word to scorn.
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In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers, And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn: Object of my implacable disgust.
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Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name, But England's Milton equals both in fame.
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Not to understand a treasure's worth till time has stole away the slighted good, is cause of half the poverty we feel, and makes the world the wilderness it is.
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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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Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart To modest cheeks, and borrowed one from art.
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Without one friend, above all foes, Britannia gives the world repose.
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Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
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All we behold is miracle.
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Oh to have a lodge in some vast wilderness. Where rumors of oppression and deceit, of unsuccessful and successful wars may never reach me anymore.
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Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.
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Fanaticism, the false fire of an overheated mind.
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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.
William Cowper