Quote

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!

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
Forever
Sport
Midas
State
Ten
Bids
Away
Fingers
Contents
States
Touch
Bleed
Country
Gold
Finger
Drink
Ministers
Thousand
Base
Sports
Mad
Dribbling

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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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As creeping ivy clings to wood or stone, And hides the ruin that it feeds upon, So sophistry, cleaves close to, and protects Sin's rotten trunk, concealing its defects.
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Domestic happiness, thou only bliss Of paradise that has surviv'd the fall!
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The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.
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Great offices will have great talents, and God gives to every man the virtue, temper, understanding, taste, that lifts him into life, and lets him fall just in the niche he was ordained to fill.
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Fanaticism, the false fire of an overheated mind.
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Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.
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Absence of proof is not proof of absence.
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How! leap into the pit our life to save? To save our life leap all into the grave.
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'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume And we are weeds without it.
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A story, in which native humour reigns, Is often useful, always entertains A graver fact, enlisted on your side, May furnish illustration, well applied But sedentary weavers of long tales Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails.
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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 solemn fop significant and budge A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge
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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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England, with all thy faults I love thee still, My country!
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Laugh at all you trembled at before.
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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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Remorse begets reform.
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