William Cowper Quotes

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.

Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much. Wisdom is humble that he knows not more.

A lawyer's dealings should be just and fair;
Honesty shines with great advantage there.

They whom truth and wisdom lead, can gather honey from a weed.

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.

In a fleshy tomb I am buried above ground.

Fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

Variety's the very spice of life, that gives it all it's flavour.

Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.

True modesty is a discerning grace
And only blushes in the proper place;
But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear,
Where 'tis a shame to be asham'd t' appear:
Humility the parent of the first,
The last by vanity produc'd and nurs'd.

We sacrifice to dress till household joys and comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, and keeps our larder lean.

Fanaticism, the false fire of an overheated mind.

The tide of life, swift always in its course,
May run in cities with a brisker force,
But nowhere with a current so serene,
Or half so clear, as in the rural scene.

Oh, popular applause! what heart of man
Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms?
The wisest and the best feel urgent need
Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales;
But swell'd into a gust
who then, alas!
With all his canvas set, and inexpert,
And therefore, heedless, can withstand thy power?

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.

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds,
Exhilirate the spirit, and restore
The tone of languid nature.

Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.

But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease.

Not to understand a treasure's worth till time has stole away the slighted good, is cause of half the poverty we feel, and makes the world the wilderness it is.

Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid,
In every bosom where her nest is made,
Hatched by the beams of truth, denies him rest,
And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.

A teacher should be sparing of his smile.

She that asks
Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all,
And hates their coming.

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

God made bees, and bees made honey, God made man, and man made money, Pride made the devil, and the devil made sin; So God made a cole-pit to put the devil in.

Unless a love of virtue light the flame,
Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame;
He hides behind a magisterial air
He own offences, and strips others' bare.

Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.

They love the country, and none else, who seek
For their own sake its silence and its shade.
Delights which who would leave, that has a heart
Susceptible of pity, or a mind
Cultured and capable of sober thought.

God made the country, and man made the town.

I seem forsaken and alone, / I hear the lion roar; / And every door is shut but one, / And that is Mercy's door.

Absence of occupation is not rest.

Happy the bard, (if that fair name belong
To him that blends no fable with his song)
Whose lines uniting, by an honest art,
The faithful monitors and poets part,
Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind,
And while they captivate, inform the mind.
Still happier, if he till a thankful soil,
And fruit reward his honorable toil:
But happier far who comfort those that wait
To hear plain truth at Judah's hallow'd gate

Events of all sorts creep or fly exactly as God pleases.

All zeal for a reform, that gives offence To peace and charity, is mere pretence.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.

God forbid that Judges upon their oath should make resolutions to enlarge jurisdiction.

The mind, relaxing into needful sport, Should turn to writers of an abler sort, Whose wit well managed, and whose classic style, Give truth a lustre, and make wisdom smile.

Habits are soon assumed; but when we strive to strip them off, 'tis being flayed alive.

Hast thou not learnd what thou art often told, A truth still sacred, and believed of old, That no success attends on spears and swords Unblest, and that the battle is the Lords?

Great offices will have great talents.

Still ending, and beginning still!

If the world like it not, so much the worse for them.

Meditation here may think down hours to moments. Here the heart may give a useful lesson to the head and learning wiser grow without his books.

Religion, richest favor of the skies.

Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.

Religion, if in heavenly truths attired, Needs only to be seen to be admired.

Happy the man who sees a God employed in all the good and ills that checker life.

He that attends to his interior self,
That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mind
That hungers, and supplies it; and who seeks
A social, not a dissipated life,
Has business.

Spare feast! a radish and an egg.

Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.

The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.

Learning itself, received into a mind
By nature weak, or viciously inclined,
Serves but to lead philosophers astray,
Where children would with ease discern the way.

If a great man struggling with misfortunes is a noble object, a little man that despises them is no contemptible one.

No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar.

Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name, But England's Milton equals both in fame.

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.

Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.

When one that holds communion with the skies
Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise,
And once more mingles with us meaner things,
'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings.

Even in the stifling bosom of the town,
A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms
That soothes the rich possessor; much consol'd,
That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint,
Or nightshade, or valerian, grace the well
He cultivates.

But animated nature sweeter still, to soothe and satisfy the human ear.

Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.

Absence of occupation is not rest; A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed.

Oh winter, king of fire side enjoyments, home born happiness.

There is a mixture of evil in everything we do; indulgence encourages us to encroach, while we Crabbe exercise the rights of children, we become childish.

Lights of the world, and stars of human race.

Twere better to be born a stone Of ruder shape, and feeling none, Than with a tenderness like mine And sensibilities so fine! Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell Forever in my native shell, Ordained to move when others please, Not for my own content or ease; But toss'd and buffeted about, Now in the water and now out.

The statesman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade
Pants for the refuge of some rural shade,
Where all his long anxieties forgot
Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot,
Or recollected only to gild o'er
And add a smile to what was sweet before,
He may possess the joys he thinks he sees,
Lay his old age upon the lap of ease,
Improve the remnant of his wasted span.
And having lived a trifler, die a man.

Eternity for bubbles proves at last a senseless bargain.

God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.

Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.

A moral, sensible, and well-bred manWill not affront me, and no other can.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in.

There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; he does not feel for man.

All truth is precious, if not all divine; and what dilates the powers must needs refine.

I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause.

Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true,- A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew.

The only amaranthine flower on earth is virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth.

The parson knows enough who knows a Duke.

Elegant as simplicity, and warm As ecstasy.

Come, evening, once again, season of peace;
Return, sweet evening, and continue long!
Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,
With matron step, slow moving, while the night
Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ'd
In letting fall the curtain of repose
On bird and beast, the other charged for man
With sweet oblivion of the cares of day.

The Spirit breathes upon the Word and brings the truth to sight.

Some write a narrative of wars and feats, Of heroes little known, and call the rant A history.

The dearest idol I have known,
Whate'er that idol be,
Help me to tear it from thy throne,
And worship only thee.
So shall my walk be close with God,
Calm and serene my frame;
So purer light shall mark the road
That leads me to the Lamb.

Accomplishments have taken virtue's place, and wisdom falls before exterior grace.

I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, for how could we do without sugar and rum?

So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

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."

With spots quadrangular of diamond form, ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, and spades, the emblems of untimely graves.

Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.

But it is a sort of April-weather life that we lead in this world. A little sunshine is generally the prelude to a storm.

Necessity invented stools,
Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs,
And luxury the accomplish'd Sofa last.

All flesh is grass. and all its glory fades
Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind;
Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream;
The man we celebrate must find a tomb,
And we that worship him, ignoble graves.

Philologists, who chase A painting syllable through time and space Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's Ark.

Tis Providence alone secures In every change both mine and yours.

To trace in Nature's most minute design The signature and stamp of power divine ... The Invisible in things scarce seen revealed, To whom an atom is an ample field.

There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume; And we are weeds without it.

Strength may wield the ponderous spade, May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home; But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, And most attractive, is the fair result Of thought, the creature of a polished mind.

Religion! what treasure untold resides in that heavenly word!

Men deal with life as children with their play,
Who first misuse, then cast their toys away.

I will venture to assert, that a just translation of any ancient poet in rhyme is impossible. No human ingenuity can be equal to the task of closing every couplet with sounds homotonous, expressing at the same time the full sense, and only the full sense of his original.