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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Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
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Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavor.
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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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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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[My kitten's] gambols are not to be described, and would be incredible, if they could.
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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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Men deal with life as children with their play, Who first misuse, then cast their toys away.
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A fool must now and then be right, by chance
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The only amaranthine flower on earth is virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth.
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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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War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
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Man disavows, and Deity disowns me: hell might afford my miseries a shelter; therefore hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all bolted against me.
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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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The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.
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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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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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Pleasure admitted in undue degree, enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.
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Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
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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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Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.
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O, popular applause! what heart of man is proof against thy sweet, seducing charms?
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All truth is precious, if not all divine; and what dilates the powers must needs refine.
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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.