Quote

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.

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
Pleasure
Breast
Nest
Truth
Breasts
Bosom
Made
Laid
Bosoms
Scorpion
Every
Eggs
Nests
Hatched
Rage
Beam
Scorpions
Deny
Proves
Beams
Prove
Remorse
Raging
Rest
Fatal
Denies

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If my resolution to be a great man was half so strong as it is to despise the shame of being a little one.
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Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.
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The fall of waters and the song of birds, And hills that echo to the distant berds, Are luxuries excelling all the glare The world can boast, and her chief favorites share.
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Did Charity prevail, the press would prove A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love.
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O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
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Laugh at all you trembled at before.
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Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
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To trace in Nature's most minute design The signature and stamp of power divine. ... The Invisible in things scarce seen revealed, To whom an atom is an ample field.
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But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.
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A lawyer's dealings should be just and fair Honesty shines with great advantage there.
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Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.
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Still ending, and beginning still.
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The only amarantine flower on earth Is virtue.
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A man renowned for repartee will seldom scruple to make free with friendship's finest feeling, will thrust a dagger at your breast, and say he wounded you in jest, by way of balm for healing.
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Unmissed but by his dogs and by his groom.
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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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I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause.
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An idler is a watch that wants both hands As useless if it goes as when it stands.
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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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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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