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All affectation 'tis my perfect scorn Object of my implacable disgust.

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
Disgust
Scorn
Disgusting
Object
Objects
Perfect
Implacable
Affectation

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The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue.
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Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.
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For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it comes to light, In every cranny but the right.
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The only amarantine flower on earth Is virtue.
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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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In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers, And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn: Object of my implacable disgust.
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I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd.
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God made bees, and bees made honey, God made man, and man made money, Pride made the devil, and the devil made sin So God made a cole-pit to put the devil in.
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Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
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If a great man struggling with misfortunes is a noble object, a little man that despises them is no contemptible one.
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Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound.
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Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heaven Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.
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Man on the dubious waves of error toss'd.
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E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream thy flowing wounds supply, redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die.
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I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, for how could we do without sugar and rum?
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The slaves of custom and established mode, With pack-horse constancy we keep the road Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells, True to the jingling of our leader's bells.
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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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Nature, exerting an unwearied power, Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads.
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When all within is peace How nature seems to smile Delights that never cease The live-long day beguile
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There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart he does not feel for man.
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