Quote

Thieves at home must hang but he that puts Into his overgorged and bloated purse The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.

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
Indian
Escapes
Wealth
Purse
Home
Provinces
Must
Purses
Thieves
Puts
Hang
Corruption
Bloated

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When scandal has new-minted an old lie, Or tax'd invention for a fresh supply, 'Tis call'd a satire, and the world appears Gathering around it with erected ears A thousand names are toss'd into the crowd, Some whisper'd softly, and some twang'd aloud, Just as the sapience of an author's brain, Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain.
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Absence of occupation is not rest A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed.
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Strength may wield the ponderous spade, May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, And most attractive, is the fair result Of thought, the creature of a polished mind.
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Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse, But talking is not always to converse, Not more distinct from harmony divine The constant creaking of a country sign.
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The beggarly last doit.
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No one was ever scolded out of their sins.
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A lawyer's dealings should be just and fair Honesty shines with great advantage there.
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God made the country, and man made the town.
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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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Knowledge is proud that it knows so much wisdom is humble that it knows no more.
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How shall I speak thee, or thy power address Thou God of our idolatry, the Press. . . . . Like Eden's dead probationary tree, Knowledge of good and evil is from thee.
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What is it but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
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But, oh, Thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art, of all Thy gifts, Thyself thy crown!
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Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.
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Most satirists are indeed a public scourge Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd, The milk of their good purpose all to curd. Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, By lean despair upon an empty purse.
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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
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Ceremony leads her bigots forth, prepared to fight for shadows of no worth. While truths, on which eternal things depend, can hardly find a single friend.
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He that runs may read.
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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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Without one friend, above all foes, Britannia gives the world repose.
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