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A fool must now and then be right, by chance

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
Intelligence
Intellectual
Fool
Chance
Truth
Right
Statistics
Must
Folly
Humorous

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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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Pleasure admitted in undue degree, enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.
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I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause.
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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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The only amarantine flower on earth Is virtue.
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When from soft love proceeds the deep distress, ah! why forbid the willing tears to flow?
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... she, that will with kittens jest, Should bear a kitten's joke.
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Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his work in vain God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain.
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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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[My kitten's] gambols are not to be described, and would be incredible, if they could.
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How readily we wish time spent revoked, that we might try the ground again where once--through inexperience, as we now perceive--we missed that happiness we might have found!
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This fond attachment to the well-known place Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day.
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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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I have a kitten,the drollest of all creatures that ever wore a cat's skin.
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Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
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The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all And every soul bawled out, Well done! As loud as he could bawl.
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Blest be the art that can immortalize.
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How various his employments whom the world Calls idle and who justly in return Esteems that busy world an idler too!
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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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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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