Quote

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

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War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
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A fool must now and then be right, by chance
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For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not?
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When all within is peace How nature seems to smile Delights that never cease The live-long day beguile
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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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Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
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Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound.
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The path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.
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If a great man struggling with misfortunes is a noble object, a little man that despises them is no contemptible one.
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The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.
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This fond attachment to the well-known place Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day.
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Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.
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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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All constraint, / Except what wisdom lays on evil men, / Is evil.
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How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at interval upon the ear In cadence sweet now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where Memory slept.
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All zeal for a reform, that gives offence To peace and charity, is mere pretence.
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Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilirate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature.
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We sacrifice to dress till household joys and comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, and keeps our larder lean.
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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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Our love is principle, and has its root In reason, is judicious, manly, free.
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