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The solemn fop significant and budge A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge

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
Significant
Budge
Judging
Amongst
Fool
Judges
Solemn
Judgement
Fools
Folly
Judge

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The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.
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A teacher should be sparing of his smile.
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The mind, relaxing into needful sport, Should turn to writers of an abler sort, Whose wit well managed, and whose classic style, Give truth a lustre, and make wisdom smile.
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The only amarantine flower on earth Is virtue.
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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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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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For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not?
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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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A life of ease is a difficult pursuit.
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It chills my blood to hear the blest Supreme Rudely appealed to on each trifling theme.
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Blest be the art that can immortalize.
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O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
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No man can be a patriot on an empty stomach.
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Come, evening, once again, season of peace Return, sweet evening, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron step, slow moving, while the night Treads on thy sweeping train one hand employ'd In letting fall the curtain of repose On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day.
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Sin let loose speaks punishment at hand.
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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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Man disavows, and Deity disowns me: hell might afford my miseries a shelter therefore hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all bolted against me.
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Slaves cannot breathe in England if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
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When one that holds communion with the skies Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings.
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Did Charity prevail, the press would prove A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love.
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