Quote

Existence is a strange bargain. Life owes us little we owe it everything. The only true happiness comes from squandering ourselves for a purpose.

William Cowper

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William Cowper
Age: 68 †
Born: 1731
Born: November 26
Died: 1800
Died: April 25
Hymnwriter
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Translator
Writer
Berkhamsted
Hertfordshire
Everything
Strange
Life
Existence
Purpose
Squandering
Happiness
Bargaining
Comes
Bargain
True
Owes
Littles
Bargains
Little
Stewardship

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O, popular applause! what heart of man is proof against thy sweet, seducing charms?
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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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How various his employments whom the world Calls idle and who justly in return Esteems that busy world an idler too!
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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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Tis Providence alone secures In every change both mine and yours.
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Religion! what treasure untold resides in that heavenly word!
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The fall of waters and the song of birds, And hills that echo to the distant berds, Are luxuries excelling all the glare The world can boast, and her chief favorites share.
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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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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hourThe bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flow’r. Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.
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Blest be the art that can immortalize,--the art that baffles time's tyrannic claim to quench it.
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Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
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The bird that flutters least is longest on the wing.
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Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
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The darkest day, if you live till tomorrow, will have passed away.
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The Spirit breathes upon the Word and brings the truth to sight.
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For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not?
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Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
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Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
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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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The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, / whom, snoring, she disturbs.
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