Quote

Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

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
Fingers
Running
Stills
Circuit
Home
Circuits
Still
Finger
Great
Runs
Like
Fancy
Clock

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He that runs may read.
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The Spirit breathes upon the Word and brings the truth to sight.
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Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid, In every bosom where her nest is made, Hatched by the beams of truth, denies him rest, And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.
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The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, Is always happy, reign whoever may, And laughs the sense of mis'ry far away.
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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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Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.
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Misses! the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carry-- Choose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry.
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There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.
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But many a crime deemed innocent on earth Is registered in Heaven and these no doubt Have each their record, with a curse annex'd.
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Meditation here may think down hours to moments. Here the heart may give a useful lesson to the head and learning wiser grow without his books.
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Though peace be made, yet it's interest that keep peace.
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The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all And every soul bawled out, Well done! As loud as he could bawl.
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Existence is a strange bargain. Life owes us little we owe it everything. The only true happiness comes from squandering ourselves for a purpose.
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Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
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A heretic, my dear sir, is a fellow who disagrees with you regarding something neither of you knows anything about.
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The parable of the prodigal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever was invented our Saviour's speech to His disciples, with which He closed His earthly ministrations, full of the sublimest dignity and tenderest affection, surpass everything that I ever read and like the spirit by which they were dictated, fly directly to the heart.
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All we behold is miracle.
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An idler is a watch that wants both hands As useless if it goes as when it stands.
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Where penury is felt the thought is chain'd, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few.
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All zeal for a reform, that gives offence To peace and charity, is mere pretence.
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