Quote

Whoever keeps an open ear For tattlers will be sure to hear The trumpet of contention.

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
Gossip
Whoever
Keeps
Ears
Hear
Open
Trumpet
Sure
Contention
Trumpets

More quotes by William Cowper

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O, popular applause! what heart of man is proof against thy sweet, seducing charms?
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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.
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Folly ends where genuine hope begins.
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... she, that will with kittens jest, Should bear a kitten's joke.
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Satan trembles when he sees the weakest saint upon their knees.
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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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A life all turbulence and noise may seem To him that leads it wise and to be praised, But wisdom is a pearl with most success Sought in still waters.
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Religion does not censure or exclude Unnumbered pleasures, harmlessly pursued.
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Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.
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Learning itself, received into a mind By nature weak, or viciously inclined, Serves but to lead philosophers astray, Where children would with ease discern the way.
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The parson knows enough who knows a Duke.
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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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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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A teacher should be sparing of his smile.
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Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.
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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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God made the country, and man made the town.
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Blest be the art that can immortalize.
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Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
William Cowper
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Even in the stifling bosom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothes the rich possessor much consol'd, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Or nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates.
William Cowper