Quote

Stamps God's own name upon a lie just made, To turn a penny in the way of trade.

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
Made
Trade
Way
Turn
Name
Names
Lying
Turns
Penny
Upon
Pennies
Money
Stamps

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Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
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Made poetry a mere mechanic art.
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There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.
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I will venture to assert, that a just translation of any ancient poet in rhyme is impossible. No human ingenuity can be equal to the task of closing every couplet with sounds homotonous, expressing at the same time the full sense, and only the full sense of his original.
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Forced from home, and all its pleasures, afric coast I left forlorn to increase a stranger's treasures, o the raging billows borne. Men from England bought and sold me, paid my price in paltry gold but, though theirs they have enroll'd me, minds are never to be sold.
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Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons to love it, too.
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He that attends to his interior self, That has a heart, and keeps it has a mind That hungers, and supplies it and who seeks A social, not a dissipated life, Has business.
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All constraint, / Except what wisdom lays on evil men, / Is evil.
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To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think.
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Some people are more nice than wise.
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The darkest day, if you live till tomorrow, will have passed away.
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All truth is precious, if not all divine and what dilates the powers must needs refine.
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The still small voice is wanted.
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But poverty, with most who whimper forth Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe The effect of laziness, or sottish write.
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To see the Law by Christ fulfilled, And hear His pardoning voice Changes a slave into a child, And duty into choice.
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What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.
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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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Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
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Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
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God made the country, and man made the town.
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