Nathaniel Cotton

Nathaniel
Cotton
1707
1788

English Poet and Physician

Author Quotes

Hold the fleet angel until he bless thee.

We'll therefore relish with content, Whate'er kind providence has sent, Nor aim beyond our pow'r; For, if our stock be very small, 'Tis prudent to enjoy it all, Nor lose the present hour.

Mental pleasure are never cloy; unlike those of the body, they are increased by repetition, approved by reflection, and strengthened by enjoyment.

Thus hand in hand through life we'll go;
Its checker'd paths of joy and woe
With cautious steps we 'll tread.

To be resign'd when ills betide,
Patient when favours are deni'd,
And pleas'd with favours given,—
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part;
This is that incense of the heart
Whose fragrance smells to heaven.

If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies,
And they are fools who roam.
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own selves our joys must flow,
And that dear hut, our home.

The two most precious things this side of the grave are our reputation and our life. But it is to be lamented that the most contemptible whisper may deprive us of the one, and the weakest weapon of the other. A wise man, therefore, will be more anxious to deserve a fair name than to possess it, and this will teach him so to live as not to be afraid to die.

To be resigned when ills betide, Patient when favours are deni'd, And pleas'd with favours given,- Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part; This is that incense of the heart Whose fragrance smells to heaven.

To-morrow, didst thou say? Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow! Go to--I will not hear it. To-morrow! 'Tis a sharper--who stakes his penury Against thy plenty--takes thy ready cash, And pays thee naught but wishes, hopes, and promises, The currency of idiots--injurious bankrupt, That gulls the easy creditor!

Mental pleasures never cloy unlike those of the body, they are increased by repetition, approved by reflection, And strengthened by enjoyment.

If solid happiness we prize, within our breast this jewel lies, And they are fools who roam; the world has nothing to bestow, From our own selves our bliss must flow, And that dear hut-our home.

Imitation is the sincerest flattery.

Author Picture
First Name
Nathaniel
Last Name
Cotton
Birth Date
1707
Death Date
1788
Bio

English Poet and Physician