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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.

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
Long
Laziness
Forth
Effect
Effects
Poverty
Whimper
Write
Inflicted
Self
Woe
Writing
Complaints

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The beggarly last doit.
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What is there in the vale of lifeHalf so delightful as a wifeWhen friendship, love and peace combineTo stamp the marriage-bond divine?
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She that asks Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, And hates their coming.
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A fool must now and then be right, by chance
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How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at interval upon the ear In cadence sweet now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where Memory slept.
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Religion! what treasure untold resides in that heavenly word!
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All we behold is miracle.
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England, with all thy faults I love thee still, My country!
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And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, Till perjuries are common as bad pence, While thousands, careless of the damning sin, Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er look'd within?
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He that runs may read.
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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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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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Misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case.
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Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
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Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.
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Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.
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Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, the mere materials with which wisdom builds, till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place, does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much wisdom is humble that he knows no more.
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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hourThe bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flow’r. Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.
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Tis Providence alone secures In every change both mine and yours.
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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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