Quote

Lord, it is my chief complaint, That my love is weak and faint Yet I love thee and adore, Oh for grace to love thee more!

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
Lord
Faint
Love
Complaints
Adore
Chief
Chiefs
Thee
Weak
Grace
Complaint

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Nature is a good name for an effect whose cause is God.
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No, Freedom has a thousand charms to show That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.
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To impute our recovery to medicine, and to carry our view no further, is to rob God of His honor, and is saying in effect that He has parted with the keys of life and death, and, by giving to a drug the power to heal us, has placed our lives out of His own reach.
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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust Him for His grace Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
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No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar.
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... she, that will with kittens jest, Should bear a kitten's joke.
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She that asks Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, And hates their coming.
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Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same.
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A noisy man is always in the right.
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I have a kitten,the drollest of all creatures that ever wore a cat's skin.
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I would not enter on my list of friends (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
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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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Fanaticism, the false fire of an overheated mind.
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What we admire we praise and when we praise, Advance it into notice, that its worth Acknowledged, others may admire it too.
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Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
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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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O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
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There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
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Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule.
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He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not color'd like his own, and having pow'r T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
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