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A heretic, my dear sir, is a fellow who disagrees with you regarding something neither of you knows anything about.

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
Anything
Heretic
Something
Regarding
Disagree
Fellow
Fellows
Dear
Atheism
Neither
Disagrees

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When nations are to perish in their sins, 'tis in the Church the leprosy begins.
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God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.
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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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Domestic happiness, thou only bliss Of paradise that has surviv'd the fall!
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If a great man struggling with misfortunes is a noble object, a little man that despises them is no contemptible one.
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Anticipated rents, and bills unpaid, Force many a shining youth into the shade, Not to redeem his time, but his estate, And play the fool, but at the cheaper rate.
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Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.
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Necessity invented stools, Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, And luxury the accomplish'd Sofa last.
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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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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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The parable of the prodigal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever was invented our Saviour's speech to His disciples, with which He closed His earthly ministrations, full of the sublimest dignity and tenderest affection, surpass everything that I ever read and like the spirit by which they were dictated, fly directly to the heart.
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Great contest follows, and much learned dust Involves the combatants each claiming truth, And truth disclaiming both.
William Cowper
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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
William Cowper
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Sacred interpreter of human thought, How few respect or use thee as they ought! But all shall give account of every wrong, Who dare dishonor or defile the tongue Who prostitute it in the cause of vice, Or sell their glory at a market-price!
William Cowper
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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!
William Cowper
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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
William Cowper
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I will venture to assert, that a just translation of any ancient poet in rhyme is impossible. No human ingenuity can be equal to the task of closing every couplet with sounds homotonous, expressing at the same time the full sense, and only the full sense of his original.
William Cowper
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Even in the stifling bosom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothes the rich possessor much consol'd, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Or nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates.
William Cowper
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But many a crime deemed innocent on earth Is registered in Heaven and these no doubt Have each their record, with a curse annex'd.
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Visits are insatiable devourers of time, and fit only for those who, if they did not that, would do nothing.
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