Quote

How readily we wish time spent revoked, that we might try the ground again where once--through inexperience, as we now perceive--we missed that happiness we might have found!

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
Found
Inexperience
Past
Readily
Might
Missed
Trying
Perceive
Time
Spent
Ground
Happiness
Wish
Revoked

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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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No wild enthusiast could rest, till half the world like him was possessed.
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Not a flower But shows some touch, in freckle, streak or stain, Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues, And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes In grains as countless as the seaside sands, The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth Happy who walks with him!
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It is a general rule of Judgment, that a mischief should rather be admitted than an inconvenience.
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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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I would not enter on my list of friends (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
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Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.
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The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.
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Habits are soon assumed but when we strive to strip them off, 'tis being flayed alive.
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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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God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to performs
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Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
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Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
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True modesty is a discerning grace And only blushes in the proper place But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, Where 'tis a shame to be asham'd t' appear: Humility the parent of the first, The last by vanity produc'd and nurs'd.
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The man that dares traduce, because he can with safety to himself, is not a man.
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Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his work in vain God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain.
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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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... she, that will with kittens jest, Should bear a kitten's joke.
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War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
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Folly ends where genuine hope begins.
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