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
May
Passings
Loneliness
Solitude
Passing
Sweet
Whisper
Friend
Grant
Stills
Retreat
Still
Grants

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This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, Built as it has been in our waning years, A rest afforded to our weary feet, Preliminary to - the last retreat.
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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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The beggarly last doit.
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Domestic happiness, thou only bliss Of paradise that has surviv'd the fall!
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Man in society is like a flow'r, Blown in its native bed. 'Tis there alone His faculties expanded in full bloom Shine out, there only reach their proper use.
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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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Sin let loose speaks punishment at hand.
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How! leap into the pit our life to save? To save our life leap all into the grave.
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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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Still ending, and beginning still.
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Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
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No, Freedom has a thousand charms to show That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.
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Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
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Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule.
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Where penury is felt the thought is chain'd, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few.
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There is mercy in every place. And mercy, encouraging thought gives even affliction a grace and reconciles man to his lot.
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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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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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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
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Most satirists are indeed a public scourge Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd, The milk of their good purpose all to curd. Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, By lean despair upon an empty purse.
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