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How various his employments whom the world Calls idle and who justly in return Esteems that busy world an idler too!

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
Calls
Esteems
Esteem
Idler
Various
Employments
Busy
Idlers
Return
Justly
World
Idleness
Idle
Employment

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Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
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Knowledge is proud that it knows so much wisdom is humble that it knows no more.
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But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings should not play at. Nations would do well To extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, Because men suffer it, their toy the world.
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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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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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All zeal for a reform, that gives offence To peace and charity, is mere pretence.
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All constraint, / Except what wisdom lays on evil men, / Is evil.
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Some people are more nice than wise.
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It is a general rule of Judgment, that a mischief should rather be admitted than an inconvenience.
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Our love is principle, and has its root In reason, is judicious, manly, free.
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And diff'ring judgments serve but to declare that truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where.
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Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilirate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature.
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Where penury is felt the thought is chain'd, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few.
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Some drill and bore The solid earth, and from the strata there Extract a register, by which we learn, That he who made it, and reveal'd its date To Moses, was mistaken in its age.
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Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.
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The parable of the prodigal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever was invented our Saviour's speech to His disciples, with which He closed His earthly ministrations, full of the sublimest dignity and tenderest affection, surpass everything that I ever read and like the spirit by which they were dictated, fly directly to the heart.
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Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oftenest in what least we dread Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow.
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Blest be the art that can immortalize.
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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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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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