William Cowper Quotes
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There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; he does not feel for man.
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E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream thy flowing wounds supply, redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die.
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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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Oh to have a lodge in some vast wilderness. Where rumors of oppression and deceit, of unsuccessful and successful wars may never reach me anymore.
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Remorse begets reform.
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A moral, sensible, and well-bred manWill not affront me, and no other can.
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When nations are to perish in their sins, 'tis in the Church the leprosy begins.
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Lord, it is my chief complaint, That my love is weak and faint; Yet I love thee and adore, Oh for grace to love thee more!
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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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Call'd to the temple of impure delight He that abstains, and he alone, does right. If a wish wander that way, call it home; He cannot long be safe whose wishes roam.
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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 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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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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O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
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England, with all thy faults I love thee still, My country!
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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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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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She that asks Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, And hates their coming.
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Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
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Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
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Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
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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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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
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We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.