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Spare feast! a radish and an egg.

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
Eggs
Radish
Radishes
Feast
Spare
Spares

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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
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Trials make the promise sweet, Trials give new life to prayer Trials bring me to His feet, Lay me low, and keep me there.
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Give what thou canst, without Thee we are poor And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.
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A tale should be judicious, clear, succinct The language plain, and incidents well link'd Tell not as new what ev'ry body knows and, new or old, still hasten to a close.
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If hindrances obstruct the way, Thy magnanimity display. And let thy strength be seen: But O, if Fortune fill thy sail With more than a propitious gale, Take half thy canvas in.
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No one was ever scolded out of their sins.
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There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
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Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heaven Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.
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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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What we admire we praise and when we praise, Advance it into notice, that its worth Acknowledged, others may admire it too.
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Events of all sorts creep or fly exactly as God pleases.
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Heaven speed the canvas, gallantly unfurl'd, To furnish and accommodate a world, To give the Pole the produce of the sun, And knit the unsocial climates into one.
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We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
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Habits are soon assumed but when we strive to strip them off, 'tis being flayed alive.
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The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.
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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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[My kitten's] gambols are not to be described, and would be incredible, if they could.
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But poverty, with most who whimper forth Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe The effect of laziness, or sottish write.
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Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true,- A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew.
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They love the country, and none else, who seek For their own sake its silence and its shade. Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Susceptible of pity, or a mind Cultured and capable of sober thought.
William Cowper