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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.
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
Object
Disgust
Objects
Altar
Perfect
Loathe
Woman
Altars
Soul
Scorn
Men
Serves
Implacable
Disgusting
Affectation
Ministers
Clergymen
More quotes by William Cowper
The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.
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O solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.
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And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, Till perjuries are common as bad pence, While thousands, careless of the damning sin, Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er look'd within?
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Absence of occupation is not rest.
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Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.
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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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Domestic happiness, thou only bliss Of paradise that has surviv'd the fall!
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That good diffused may more abundant grow.
William Cowper
Philologists, who chase A painting syllable through time and space Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's Ark.
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Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days The scene is touching, and the heart is stone, That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
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Absence of proof is not proof of absence.
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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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The earth was made so various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.
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Heaven speed the canvas, gallantly unfurl'd, To furnish and accommodate a world, To give the Pole the produce of the sun, And knit the unsocial climates into one.
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They whom truth and wisdom lead, can gather honey from a weed.
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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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Blest be the art that can immortalize.
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Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
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The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.
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Did Charity prevail, the press would prove A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love.
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