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What is there in the vale of lifeHalf so delightful as a wifeWhen friendship, love and peace combineTo stamp the marriage-bond divine?

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
Delightful
Friendship
Marriage
Divine
Vale
Wife
Stamp
Peace
Anniversary
Love
Stamps
Bond

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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.
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A fretful temper will divide the closest knot that may be tied, by ceaseless sharp corrosion a temper passionate and fierce may suddenly your joys disperse at one immense explosion.
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Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
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To impute our recovery to medicine, and to carry our view no further, is to rob God of His honor, and is saying in effect that He has parted with the keys of life and death, and, by giving to a drug the power to heal us, has placed our lives out of His own reach.
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Whoever keeps an open ear For tattlers will be sure to hear The trumpet of contention.
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Truth is the golden girdle of the globe.
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Still ending, and beginning still.
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Folly ends where genuine hope begins.
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Call'd to the temple of impure delight He that abstains, and he alone, does right. If a wish wander that way, call it home He cannot long be safe whose wishes roam.
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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.
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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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His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home.
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A teacher should be sparing of his smile.
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Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
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All constraint, / Except what wisdom lays on evil men, / Is evil.
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Without one friend, above all foes, Britannia gives the world repose.
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Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.
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England, with all thy faults I love thee still, My country!
William Cowper
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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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Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name, But England's Milton equals both in fame.
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