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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.
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
Loneliness
Solitude
Passing
Sweet
Whisper
Friend
Grant
Stills
Retreat
Still
Grants
May
Passings
More quotes by William Cowper
Thieves at home must hang but he that puts Into his overgorged and bloated purse The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.
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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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Absence of proof is not proof of absence.
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Great contest follows, and much learned dust Involves the combatants each claiming truth, And truth disclaiming both.
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No man can be a patriot on an empty stomach.
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God forbid that Judges upon their oath should make resolutions to enlarge jurisdiction.
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Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true,- A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew.
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Where penury is felt the thought is chain'd, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few.
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Pernicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys, Unfriendly to society's chief joys: Thy worst effect is banishing for hours The sex whose presence civilizes ours.
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In the vast, and the minute, we see The unambiguous footsteps of the God, Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds.
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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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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.
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Dejection of spirits, which may have prevented many a man from becoming an author, made me one. I find constant employment necessary, and therefore take care to be constantly employed. . . . When I can find no other occupation, I think and when I think, I am very apt to do it in rhyme.
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Some write a narrative of wars and feats, Of heroes little known, and call the rant A history.
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He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not color'd like his own, and having pow'r T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
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The path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.
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No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar.
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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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With spots quadrangular of diamond form, ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, and spades, the emblems of untimely graves.
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