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
Love
Complaints
Adore
Chief
Chiefs
Thee
Weak
Grace
Complaint
Lord
Faint

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Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.
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God never meant that man should scale the Heavens By strides of human wisdom. In his works, Though wondrous, he commands us in his word To seek him rather where his mercy shines.
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Some people are more nice than wise.
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In indolent vacuity of thought.
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No wild enthusiast could rest, till half the world like him was possessed.
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God forbid that Judges upon their oath should make resolutions to enlarge jurisdiction.
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And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, Till perjuries are common as bad pence, While thousands, careless of the damning sin, Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er look'd within?
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How much a dunce that has been sent to roam, excels a dunce that has been kept at home.
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There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart he does not feel for man.
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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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...So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
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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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Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart To modest cheeks, and borrowed one from art.
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O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
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The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow, and when we lie down at night we may safely say to most of our troubles, Ye have done your worst, and we shall see you no more.
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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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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
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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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Misses! the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carry-- Choose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry.
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For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not?
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