Quote

He that attends to his interior self, That has a heart, and keeps it has a mind That hungers, and supplies it and who seeks A social, not a dissipated life, Has business.

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
Social
Attends
Self
Interior
Heart
Interiors
Mind
Supplies
Life
Seeks
Keeps
Hunger
Hungers
Business
Dissipated

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I have a kitten,the drollest of all creatures that ever wore a cat's skin.
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Without one friend, above all foes, Britannia gives the world repose.
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Some drill and bore The solid earth, and from the strata there Extract a register, by which we learn, That he who made it, and reveal'd its date To Moses, was mistaken in its age.
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That good diffused may more abundant grow.
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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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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
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The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.
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There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.
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Absence of occupation is not rest A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed.
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Absence of occupation is not rest.
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Accomplishments have taken virtue's place, and wisdom falls before exterior grace.
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Come, evening, once again, season of peace Return, sweet evening, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron step, slow moving, while the night Treads on thy sweeping train one hand employ'd In letting fall the curtain of repose On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day.
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Nature is a good name for an effect whose cause is God.
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Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
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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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The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.
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And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
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There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
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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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Satan trembles when he sees the weakest saint upon their knees.
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