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There is a mixture of evil in everything we do indulgence encourages us to encroach, while we Crabbe exercise the rights of children, we become childish.

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
Exercise
Rights
Evil
Encroach
Become
Childish
Everything
Encourages
Children
Mixture
Mixtures
Indulgence

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This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, Built as it has been in our waning years, A rest afforded to our weary feet, Preliminary to - the last retreat.
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No man can be a patriot on an empty stomach.
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Oh to have a lodge in some vast wilderness. Where rumors of oppression and deceit, of unsuccessful and successful wars may never reach me anymore.
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To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think.
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Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
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Without one friend, above all foes, Britannia gives the world repose.
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Our love is principle, and has its root In reason, is judicious, manly, free.
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In the vast, and the minute, we see The unambiguous footsteps of the God, Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds.
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Not to understand a treasure's worth till time has stole away the slighted good, is cause of half the poverty we feel, and makes the world the wilderness it is.
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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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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.
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All constraint, / Except what wisdom lays on evil men, / Is evil.
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Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
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The path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.
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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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And, of all lies (be that one poet's boast) / The lie that flatters I abhor the most.
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But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings should not play at. Nations would do well To extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, Because men suffer it, their toy the world.
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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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Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.
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Truth is the golden girdle of the globe.
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