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War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.

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
Would
Antiwar
Kings
Subjects
Game
Wise
Games
War
Play

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Lights of the world, and stars of human race.
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The man to solitude accustom'd long, Perceives in everything that lives a tongue Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees Have speech for him, and understood with ease, After long drought when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all.
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Laugh at all you trembled at before.
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Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
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Trials make the promise sweet, Trials give new life to prayer Trials bring me to His feet, Lay me low, and keep me there.
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Still ending, and beginning still.
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Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oftenest in what least we dread Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow.
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Pity! Religion has so seldom found A skilful guide into poetic ground! The flowers would spring where'er she deign'd to stray And every muse attend her in her way.
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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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Heaven speed the canvas, gallantly unfurl'd, To furnish and accommodate a world, To give the Pole the produce of the sun, And knit the unsocial climates into one.
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Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound.
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[My kitten's] gambols are not to be described, and would be incredible, if they could.
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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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As if the world and they were hand and glove.
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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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His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home.
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No traveler e'er reached that blest abode who found not thorns and briers in his road.
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But animated nature sweeter still, to soothe and satisfy the human ear.
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Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
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Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
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