Quote

A fretful temper will divide the closest knot that may be tied, by ceaseless sharp corrosion a temper passionate and fierce may suddenly your joys disperse at one immense explosion.

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
Immense
Knots
Temper
Explosions
Tied
Divide
Corrosion
Suddenly
Joys
Fretful
Passionate
Divides
Disperse
Joy
Sharp
Ceaseless
May
Fierce
Knot
Closest
Explosion

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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
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O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
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To trace in Nature's most minute design The signature and stamp of power divine. ... The Invisible in things scarce seen revealed, To whom an atom is an ample field.
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Knowledge is proud that it knows so much wisdom is humble that it knows no more.
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Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
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Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
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Gardening imparts an organic perspective on the passage of time.
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A teacher should be sparing of his smile.
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Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart To modest cheeks, and borrowed one from art.
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O solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.
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Satan trembles when he sees the weakest saint upon their knees.
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Great offices will have great talents.
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I pity bashful men, who feel the pain Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain, And bear the marks upon a blushing face, OF needless shame, and self-impos'd disgrace.
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Stamps God's own name upon a lie just made, To turn a penny in the way of trade.
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Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.
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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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How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.
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Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.
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But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings should not play at. Nations would do well To extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, Because men suffer it, their toy the world.
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The darkest day, if you live till tomorrow, will have passed away.
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