William Cowper Quotes
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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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Some people are more nice than wise.
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Some write a narrative of wars and feats, Of heroes little known, and call the rant A history.
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The Cross! There, and there only (though the deist rave, and the atheist, if Earth bears so base a slave); There and there only, is the power to save.
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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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[My kitten's] gambols are not to be described, and would be incredible, if they could.
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No wisdom that she may gain by experience and reflection hereafter, will compensate the loss of her present hilarity.
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A fool must now and then be right, by chance
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Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.
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God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to performs
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Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.
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Men deal with life as children with their play, Who first misuse, then cast their toys away.
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All affectation; 'tis my perfect scorn; Object of my implacable disgust.
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The earth was made so various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.
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When scandal has new-minted an old lie, Or tax'd invention for a fresh supply, 'Tis call'd a satire, and the world appears Gathering around it with erected ears; A thousand names are toss'd into the crowd, Some whisper'd softly, and some twang'd aloud, Just as the sapience of an author's brain, Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain.
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Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule.
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It is a terrible thought, that nothing is ever forgotten; that not an oath is ever uttered that does not continue to vibrate through all times, in the wide spreading current of sound; that not a prayer is lisped, that its record is not to be found st
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Mansions once Knew their own masters, and laborious hinds, That had surviv'd the father, serv'd the son. Now the legitimate and rightful lord Is but a transient guest, newly arrived, And soon to be supplanted. He that saw His patrimonial timber cast its leaf, Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price To some shrewd sharper ere it buds again. Estates are landscapes, gazed upon awhile, Then advertised and auctioneer'd away.
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How happy it is to believe, with a steadfast assurance, that our petitions are heard even while we are making them; and how delightful to meet with a proof of it in the effectual and actual grant of them.
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Misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case.
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He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves besides.
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Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
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The beggarly last doit.
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With spots quadrangular of diamond form, ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, and spades, the emblems of untimely graves.