Quote

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.

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
Friend
Truths
Worth
Hardly
Fight
Forth
Bigots
Single
Leads
Bigotry
Fighting
Shadow
Ceremony
Truth
Prepared
Shadows
Find
Eternal
Depend
Things
Depends
Racist

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The parable of the prodigal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever was invented our Saviour's speech to His disciples, with which He closed His earthly ministrations, full of the sublimest dignity and tenderest affection, surpass everything that I ever read and like the spirit by which they were dictated, fly directly to the heart.
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Laugh at all you trembled at before.
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Spare feast! a radish and an egg.
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It chills my blood to hear the blest Supreme Rudely appealed to on each trifling theme.
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And in that hour, The seeds of cruelty, that since have swell'd To such gigantic and enormous growth, Were sown in human nature's fruitful soil. Hence date the persecution and the pain That man inflicts on all inferior kinds, Regardless of their plaints.
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Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.
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But many a crime deemed innocent on earth Is registered in Heaven and these no doubt Have each their record, with a curse annex'd.
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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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The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown, And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort, And mar the face of beauty, when no cause For such immeasurable woe appears These Flora banishes, and gives the fair Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own.
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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.
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His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home.
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Elegant as simplicity, and warm As ecstasy.
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It is a general rule of Judgment, that a mischief should rather be admitted than an inconvenience.
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Whoever keeps an open ear For tattlers will be sure to hear The trumpet of contention.
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Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule.
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Ages elapsed ere Homer's lamp appear'd, And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard: To carry nature lengths unknown before, To give a Milton birth, ask'd ages 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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'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume And we are weeds without it.
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She that asks Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, And hates their coming.
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Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.
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