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Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.

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
Kindness
Born
Kind
Base
Slave

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The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.
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Though peace be made, yet it's interest that keep peace.
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They fix attention, heedless of your pain, With oaths like rivets forced into the brain And e'en when sober truth prevails throughout, They swear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt.
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Ten thousand casks, Forever dribbling out their base contents, Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state, Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. Drink, and be mad then 'tis your country bids!
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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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The solemn fop significant and budge A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge
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God made the country, and man made the town.
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This fond attachment to the well-known place Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day.
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The path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.
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Happy the man who sees a God employed in all the good and ills that checker life.
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A self-made man? Yes, and one who worships his creator.
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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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Good sense, good health, good conscience, and good fame,--all these belong to virtue, and all prove that virtue has a title to your love.
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That good diffused may more abundant grow.
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Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
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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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True modesty is a discerning grace And only blushes in the proper place But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, Where 'tis a shame to be asham'd t' appear: Humility the parent of the first, The last by vanity produc'd and nurs'd.
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The man to solitude accustom'd long, Perceives in everything that lives a tongue Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees Have speech for him, and understood with ease, After long drought when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all.
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His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home.
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A life of ease is a difficult pursuit.
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