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Tis Providence alone secures In every change both mine and yours.

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
Secures
Providence
Mines
Mine
Alone
Change
Every

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Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart To modest cheeks, and borrowed one from art.
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There is mercy in every place. And mercy, encouraging thought gives even affliction a grace and reconciles man to his lot.
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God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to performs
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A Christian's wit is offensive light, A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight Vig'rous in age as in the flush of youth, 'Tis always active on the side of truth.
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Made poetry a mere mechanic art.
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O Winter! ruler of the inverted year, . . . I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed Retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening, know.
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Misses! the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carry-- Choose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry.
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Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.
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We are never more in danger than when we think ourselves most secure, nor in reality more secure than when we seem to be most in danger.
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A heretic, my dear sir, is a fellow who disagrees with you regarding something neither of you knows anything about.
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God made bees, and bees made honey, God made man, and man made money, Pride made the devil, and the devil made sin So God made a cole-pit to put the devil in.
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The Spirit breathes upon the Word and brings the truth to sight.
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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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Sin let loose speaks punishment at hand.
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Still ending, and beginning still.
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Built God a church and laughed His word to scorn.
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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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Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.
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Most satirists are indeed a public scourge Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd, The milk of their good purpose all to curd. Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, By lean despair upon an empty purse.
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A fretful temper will divide the closest knot that may be tied, by ceaseless sharp corrosion a temper passionate and fierce may suddenly your joys disperse at one immense explosion.
William Cowper