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All zeal for a reform, that gives offence To peace and charity, is mere pretence.

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
Mere
Gives
Peace
Giving
Pretence
Offence
Zeal
Reform
Charity

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How various his employments whom the world Calls idle and who justly in return Esteems that busy world an idler too!
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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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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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Absence of occupation is not rest.
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I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause.
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Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same.
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There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
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The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.
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Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.
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They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own.
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In indolent vacuity of thought.
William Cowper
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Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry enjoy'd at home, An Nature, in her cultivated trim Dress'ed to his taste, inviting him abroad - Can he want occupation who has these?
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What is there in the vale of lifeHalf so delightful as a wifeWhen friendship, love and peace combineTo stamp the marriage-bond divine?
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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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Unless a love of virtue light the flame, Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame He hides behind a magisterial air He own offences, and strips others' bare.
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But slaves that once conceive the glowing thought Of freedom, in that hope itself possess All that the contest calls for spirit, strength, The scorn of danger, and united hearts, The surest presage of the good they seek.
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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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Man disavows, and Deity disowns me: hell might afford my miseries a shelter therefore hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all bolted against me.
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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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Whoever keeps an open ear For tattlers will be sure to hear The trumpet of contention.
William Cowper