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And, of all lies (be that one poet's boast) / The lie that flatters I abhor the most.

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
Lying
Flatters
Abhor
Boast
Lies
Poet

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Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavor.
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The bird that flutters least is longest on the wing.
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All truth is precious, if not all divine and what dilates the powers must needs refine.
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Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa around, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in
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We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
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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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No wild enthusiast could rest, till half the world like him was possessed.
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The darkest day, if you live till tomorrow, will have passed away.
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Our love is principle, and has its root In reason, is judicious, manly, free.
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We bear our shades about us self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree.
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There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
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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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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
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As creeping ivy clings to wood or stone, And hides the ruin that it feeds upon, So sophistry, cleaves close to, and protects Sin's rotten trunk, concealing its defects.
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His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home.
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Call'd to the temple of impure delight He that abstains, and he alone, does right. If a wish wander that way, call it home He cannot long be safe whose wishes roam.
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The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, Is always happy, reign whoever may, And laughs the sense of mis'ry far away.
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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!
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But, oh, Thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art, of all Thy gifts, Thyself thy crown!
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Religion does not censure or exclude Unnumbered pleasures, harmlessly pursued.
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