William Cowper Quotes
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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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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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Spare feast! a radish and an egg.
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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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Remorse begets reform.
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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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Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
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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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There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; he does not feel for man.
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O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
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When nations are to perish in their sins, 'tis in the Church the leprosy begins.
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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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Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
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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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We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
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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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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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Thieves at home must hang; but he that puts Into his overgorged and bloated purse The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.
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Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
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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.