Quote

The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, / whom, snoring, she disturbs.

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
Watches
Watch
Snoring
Sleep
Disturbs
Sweetly
Sleeps
Hired
Nurse
Sick

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Made poetry a mere mechanic art.
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But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease.
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Transforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.
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Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
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I seem forsaken and alone, / I hear the lion roar / And every door is shut but one, / And that is Mercy's door.
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There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
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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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And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
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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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Our love is principle, and has its root In reason, is judicious, manly, free.
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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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As creeping ivy clings to wood or stone, And hides the ruin that it feeds upon, So sophistry, cleaves close to, and protects Sin's rotten trunk, concealing its defects.
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The man that dares traduce, because he can with safety to himself, is not a man.
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Some to the fascination of a name, Surrender judgment hoodwinked.
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We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
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All zeal for a reform, that gives offence To peace and charity, is mere pretence.
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Some write a narrative of wars and feats, Of heroes little known, and call the rant A history.
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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.
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Even in the stifling bosom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothes the rich possessor much consol'd, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Or nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates.
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He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves besides.
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