Quote

I pity bashful men, who feel the pain Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain, And bear the marks upon a blushing face, OF needless shame, and self-impos'd disgrace.

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
Faces
Disgrace
Upon
Scorn
Undeserved
Pain
Pity
Fancied
Self
Bear
Bashful
Feel
Shame
Needless
Feels
Mark
Blushing
Men
Bears
Disdain
Face
Marks

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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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God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to performs
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Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.
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The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown, And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort, And mar the face of beauty, when no cause For such immeasurable woe appears These Flora banishes, and gives the fair Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own.
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Elegant as simplicity, and warm As ecstasy.
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Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
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Our love is principle, and has its root In reason, is judicious, manly, free.
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Sends Nature forth the daughter of the skies... To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes.
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Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, the mere materials with which wisdom builds, till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place, does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much wisdom is humble that he knows no more.
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Some to the fascination of a name, Surrender judgment hoodwinked.
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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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My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
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She that asks Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, And hates their coming.
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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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Admirals extolled for standing still, or doing nothing with a deal of skill.
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Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.
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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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Meditation here may think down hours to moments. Here the heart may give a useful lesson to the head and learning wiser grow without his books.
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Philologists, who chase A painting syllable through time and space Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's Ark.
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