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

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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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Pernicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys, Unfriendly to society's chief joys: Thy worst effect is banishing for hours The sex whose presence civilizes ours.
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Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.
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We sacrifice to dress till household joys and comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, and keeps our larder lean.
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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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Transforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.
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Religion, richest favor of the skies.
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But conversation, choose what theme we may, And chiefly when religion leads the way, Should flow, like waters after summer show'rs, Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers.
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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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Come, evening, once again, season of peace Return, sweet evening, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron step, slow moving, while the night Treads on thy sweeping train one hand employ'd In letting fall the curtain of repose On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day.
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Oh to have a lodge in some vast wilderness. Where rumors of oppression and deceit, of unsuccessful and successful wars may never reach me anymore.
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The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all And every soul bawled out, Well done! As loud as he could bawl.
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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
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The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.
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They love the country, and none else, who seek For their own sake its silence and its shade. Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Susceptible of pity, or a mind Cultured and capable of sober thought.
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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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Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days The scene is touching, and the heart is stone, That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
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Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons to love it, too.
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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!
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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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