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

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Man on the dubious waves of error toss'd.
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Man in society is like a flow'r, Blown in its native bed. 'Tis there alone His faculties expanded in full bloom Shine out, there only reach their proper use.
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There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
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Fanaticism, the false fire of an overheated mind.
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Give what thou canst, without Thee we are poor And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.
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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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Gardening imparts an organic perspective on the passage of time.
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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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Knowledge is proud that it knows so much wisdom is humble that it knows no more.
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Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.
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Unmissed but by his dogs and by his groom.
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Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.
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Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.
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No, Freedom has a thousand charms to show That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.
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All flesh is grass. and all its glory fades Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream The man we celebrate must find a tomb, And we that worship him, ignoble graves.
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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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We bear our shades about us self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree.
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'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume And we are weeds without it.
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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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