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But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease.

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
Remember
Still
Modesty
Mean
Ease
Presses
Press
Please
Point
Stills

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Pleasure admitted in undue degree, enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.
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How much a dunce that has been sent to roam, excels a dunce that has been kept at home.
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They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own.
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Heaven's harmony is universal love.
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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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The only amaranthine flower on earth is virtue the only lasting treasure, truth.
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Some to the fascination of a name, Surrender judgment hoodwinked.
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Absence of occupation is not rest.
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Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world to see the stir Of the Great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
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To see the Law by Christ fulfilled, And hear His pardoning voice Changes a slave into a child, And duty into choice.
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Fanaticism, the false fire of an overheated mind.
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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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Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
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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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The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all And every soul bawled out, Well done! As loud as he could bawl.
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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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When one that holds communion with the skies Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings.
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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
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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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