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

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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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They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own.
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My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
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Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds you so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break, With blessings on your head
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Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.
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Great offices will have great talents.
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Necessity invented stools, Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, And luxury the accomplish'd Sofa last.
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Lights of the world, and stars of human race.
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A glory gilds the sacred page, Majestic like the sun, It gives a light to every age, It gives, but borrows none.
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Tis Providence alone secures In every change both mine and yours.
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No traveler e'er reached that blest abode who found not thorns and briers in his road.
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Admirals extolled for standing still, or doing nothing with a deal of skill.
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Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.
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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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Dejection of spirits, which may have prevented many a man from becoming an author, made me one. I find constant employment necessary, and therefore take care to be constantly employed. . . . When I can find no other occupation, I think and when I think, I am very apt to do it in rhyme.
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Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
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Heaven speed the canvas, gallantly unfurl'd, To furnish and accommodate a world, To give the Pole the produce of the sun, And knit the unsocial climates into one.
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Some people are more nice than wise.
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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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No man can be a patriot on an empty stomach.
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