William Cowper Quotes
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He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not color'd like his own, and having pow'r T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
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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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Some write a narrative of wars and feats, Of heroes little known, and call the rant A history.
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With spots quadrangular of diamond form, ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, and spades, the emblems of untimely graves.
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Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse, But talking is not always to converse, Not more distinct from harmony divine The constant creaking of a country sign.
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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
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An epigram is but a feeble thing - With straw in tail, stuck there by way of sting.
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Trials make the promise sweet, Trials give new life to prayer; Trials bring me to His feet, Lay me low, and keep me there.
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Sends Nature forth the daughter of the skies... To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes.
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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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The still small voice is wanted.
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Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.
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Good sense, good health, good conscience, and good fame,--all these belong to virtue, and all prove that virtue has a title to your love.
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They whom truth and wisdom lead, can gather honey from a weed.
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The beggarly last doit.
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All truth is precious, if not all divine; and what dilates the powers must needs refine.
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Poor England! thou art a devoted deer, Beset with every ill but that of fear. The nations hunt; all mock thee for a prey; They swarm around thee, and thou stand'st at bay.
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Defend me, therefore, common sense, say From reveries so airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up.
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Ceremony leads her bigots forth, prepared to fight for shadows of no worth. While truths, on which eternal things depend, can hardly find a single friend.
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The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow, and when we lie down at night we may safely say to most of our troubles, "Ye have done your worst, and we shall see you no more."
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How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.
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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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There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.
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Heaven's harmony is universal love.