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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
Zeal
Reform
Charity
Mere
Gives
Peace
Giving
Pretence
Offence

More quotes by William Cowper

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Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
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But what is truth? 'Twas Pilate's question put To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply.
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They love the country, and none else, who seek For their own sake its silence and its shade. Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Susceptible of pity, or a mind Cultured and capable of sober thought.
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Th' embroid'ry of poetic dreams.
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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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The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, And then skip down again, pronounce a text, Cry hem and reading what they never wrote Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, And with a well-bred whisper close the scene!
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Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.
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Lights of the world, and stars of human race.
William Cowper
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No one was ever scolded out of their sins.
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There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.
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To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think.
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In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers, And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn: Object of my implacable disgust.
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He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves besides.
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But animated nature sweeter still, to soothe and satisfy the human ear.
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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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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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How much a dunce that has been sent to roam, excels a dunce that has been kept at home.
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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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I would not enter on my list of friends (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
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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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