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

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I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted ev'ning, know.
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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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Did Charity prevail, the press would prove A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love.
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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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...So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
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Fanaticism, the false fire of an overheated mind.
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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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I am out of humanity's reach.I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speechI start at the sound of my own.
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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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The man to solitude accustom'd long, Perceives in everything that lives a tongue Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees Have speech for him, and understood with ease, After long drought when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all.
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Philologists, who chase A painting syllable through time and space Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's Ark.
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To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think.
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Defend me, therefore, common sense, say From reveries so airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up.
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The beggarly last doit.
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Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
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There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.
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But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn, Shine by the side of every path we tread With such a lustre he that runs may read.
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Though peace be made, yet it's interest that keep peace.
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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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Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, / Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost.
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