William Cowper Quotes
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Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.
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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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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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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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Events of all sorts creep or fly exactly as God pleases.
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The solemn fop; significant and budge; A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge
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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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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
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What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.
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War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
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Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.
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But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings should not play at. Nations would do well To extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, Because men suffer it, their toy the world.
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But animated nature sweeter still, to soothe and satisfy the human ear.
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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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An epigram is but a feeble thing - With straw in tail, stuck there by way of sting.
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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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[My kitten] is dressed in a tortoise-shell suit, and I know you will delight in her.
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Ten thousand casks, Forever dribbling out their base contents, Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state, Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. Drink, and be mad then; 'tis your country bids!
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England with all thy faults, I love thee still-- My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee.
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Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.
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This fond attachment to the well-known place Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day.
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Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.
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Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world; to see the stir Of the Great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
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Heaven's harmony is universal love.