Quote

England with all thy faults, I love thee still-- My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee.

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
Stills
Faults
Still
Thee
May
English
Country
Minds
Mind
England
Love
Shall
Nook
Left
Constrained
Found
Manners

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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
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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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Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world to see the stir Of the Great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
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Give what thou canst, without Thee we are poor And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.
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Religion does not censure or exclude Unnumbered pleasures, harmlessly pursued.
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When from soft love proceeds the deep distress, ah! why forbid the willing tears to flow?
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The proud are ever most provoked by pride.
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How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light.
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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!
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The beggarly last doit.
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Knowledge is proud that it knows so much wisdom is humble that it knows no more.
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[My kitten's] gambols are not to be described, and would be incredible, if they could.
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A man renowned for repartee will seldom scruple to make free with friendship's finest feeling, will thrust a dagger at your breast, and say he wounded you in jest, by way of balm for healing.
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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
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Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.
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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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Pernicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys, Unfriendly to society's chief joys: Thy worst effect is banishing for hours The sex whose presence civilizes ours.
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Men deal with life as children with their play, Who first misuse, then cast their toys away.
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Without one friend, above all foes, Britannia gives the world repose.
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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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