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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
Kings
Subjects
Game
Wise
Games
War
Play
Would
Antiwar

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The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.
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Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
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Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
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Religion! what treasure untold resides in that heavenly word!
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I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted ev'ning, know.
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Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry enjoy'd at home, An Nature, in her cultivated trim Dress'ed to his taste, inviting him abroad - Can he want occupation who has these?
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The parson knows enough who knows a Duke.
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The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, / whom, snoring, she disturbs.
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Th' embroid'ry of poetic dreams.
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Transforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.
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Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.
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Learning itself, received into a mind By nature weak, or viciously inclined, Serves but to lead philosophers astray, Where children would with ease discern the way.
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Accomplishments have taken virtue's place, and wisdom falls before exterior grace.
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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.
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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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But, oh, Thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art, of all Thy gifts, Thyself thy crown!
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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 path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.
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Defend me, therefore, common sense, say From reveries so airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up.
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But conversation, choose what theme we may, And chiefly when religion leads the way, Should flow, like waters after summer show'rs, Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers.
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