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He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves besides.

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
Freedom
Free
Makes
Truth
Freeman
Slaves
Besides
Slave

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Grief is itself a medicine.
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Sin let loose speaks punishment at hand.
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The man that dares traduce, because he can with safety to himself, is not a man.
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Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.
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Man on the dubious waves of error toss'd.
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Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days The scene is touching, and the heart is stone, That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
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Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.
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The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.
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The only amarantine flower on earth Is virtue.
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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.
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Knowledge is proud that it knows so much wisdom is humble that it knows no more.
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Th' embroid'ry of poetic dreams.
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Lights of the world, and stars of human race.
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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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A self-made man? Yes, and one who worships his creator.
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There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.
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The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.
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Some drill and bore The solid earth, and from the strata there Extract a register, by which we learn, That he who made it, and reveal'd its date To Moses, was mistaken in its age.
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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.
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E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream thy flowing wounds supply, redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die.
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