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Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame; He hides behind a magisterial air He own offences, and strips others’ bare.

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Bare Behind Blamer Brand Magisterial More Offense Own Satire Strip

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A heretic, my dear sir, is a fellow who disagrees with you regarding something neither of you knows anything about.
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A life of ease is a difficult pursuit.
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The 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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The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, / whom, snoring, she disturbs.
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No man can be a patriot on an empty stomach.
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He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not color’d like his own, and having pow’r T’ enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
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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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Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame; He hides behind a magisterial air He own offences, and strips others’ bare.
WILLIAM COWPER

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Accomplishments have taken virtue’s place, and wisdom falls before exterior grace.
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After long drought when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all.
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Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
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I am out of humanity’s reach.I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speech;I start at the sound of my own.
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He that has seen both sides of fifty has lived to little purpose if he has no other views of the world than he had when he was much younger.
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Absence of occupation is not rest.
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O solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.
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God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm.
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Would I describe a preacher, I would express him simple, grave, sincere; In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste,
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Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e’en in age, and at our latest day.
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Restraining prayer, we cease to fight; Prayer keeps the Christian’s armor bright; And Satan trembles when he sees The weakest saint upon his knees.
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Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
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A self-made man? Yes, and one who worships his creator.
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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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Manner is all in all, whate’er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.
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I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, for how could we do without sugar and rum?
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Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.
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A fool must now and then be right, by chance
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