William Cowper Quotes
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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour;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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Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
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The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, And then skip down again, pronounce a text, Cry hem; and reading what they never wrote Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, And with a well-bred whisper close the scene!
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Remorse begets reform.
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There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; he does not feel for man.
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Religion Caesar never knew Thy posterity shall sway, Where his eagles never flew, None as invincible as they.
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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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O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
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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. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never failing skill He treasures up his bright designs, And works his sovereign will. Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
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A man renowned for repartee will seldom scruple to make free with friendship's finest feeling, will thrust a dagger at your breast, and say he wounded you in jest, by way of balm for healing.
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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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Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name, But England's Milton equals both in fame.
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Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
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When nations are to perish in their sins, 'tis in the Church the leprosy begins.
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Great contest follows, and much learned dust Involves the combatants; each claiming truth, And truth disclaiming both.
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If hindrances obstruct the way, Thy magnanimity display. And let thy strength be seen: But O, if Fortune fill thy sail With more than a propitious gale, Take half thy canvas in.
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A story, in which native humour reigns, Is often useful, always entertains; A graver fact, enlisted on your side, May furnish illustration, well applied; But sedentary weavers of long tales Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails.
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Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
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And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, Till perjuries are common as bad pence, While thousands, careless of the damning sin, Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er look'd within?
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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
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But, oh, Thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art, of all Thy gifts, Thyself thy crown!
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We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
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Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone, That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
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Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.