Quote

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

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Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world to see the stir Of the Great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
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God made bees, and bees made honey, God made man, and man made money, Pride made the devil, and the devil made sin So God made a cole-pit to put the devil in.
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Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.
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But animated nature sweeter still, to soothe and satisfy the human ear.
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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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O Winter! ruler of the inverted year, . . . I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed Retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening, know.
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Philologists, who chase A painting syllable through time and space Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's Ark.
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The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.
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No man can be a patriot on an empty stomach.
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But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn, Shine by the side of every path we tread With such a lustre he that runs may read.
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Admirals extolled for standing still, or doing nothing with a deal of skill.
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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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Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heaven Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.
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And diff'ring judgments serve but to declare that truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where.
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No wild enthusiast could rest, till half the world like him was possessed.
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Without one friend, above all foes, Britannia gives the world repose.
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We sacrifice to dress till household joys and comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, and keeps our larder lean.
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Ten thousand casks, Forever dribbling out their base contents, Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state, Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. Drink, and be mad then 'tis your country bids!
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Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
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Men deal with life as children with their play, Who first misuse, then cast their toys away.
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