Quote

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds: And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs, or martial, brisk or grave Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.

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
Within
Sympathy
Unison
Sound
Graves
Chord
Soul
Sounds
Martial
Music
Souls
Melting
Heart
Ears
Chords
Mind
Touch
Pitch
Brisk
Air
Pleased
Replies
Hear
Grave
Airs

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And, of all lies (be that one poet's boast) / The lie that flatters I abhor the most.
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Man in society is like a flow'r, Blown in its native bed. 'Tis there alone His faculties expanded in full bloom Shine out, there only reach their proper use.
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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.
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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.
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Habits are soon assumed but when we strive to strip them off, 'tis being flayed alive.
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They fix attention, heedless of your pain, With oaths like rivets forced into the brain And e'en when sober truth prevails throughout, They swear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt.
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If a great man struggling with misfortunes is a noble object, a little man that despises them is no contemptible one.
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God forbid that Judges upon their oath should make resolutions to enlarge jurisdiction.
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I am out of humanity's reach.
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My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
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A self-made man? Yes, and one who worships his creator.
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When from soft love proceeds the deep distress, ah! why forbid the willing tears to flow?
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An idler is a watch that wants both hands As useless if it goes as when it stands.
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All constraint, / Except what wisdom lays on evil men, / Is evil.
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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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O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
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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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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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God made the country, and man made the town.
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