Quote

Poor England! thou art a devoted deer, Beset with every ill but that of fear. The nations hunt all mock thee for a prey They swarm around thee, and thou stand'st at bay.

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
Around
Thou
Swarms
Every
Thee
Hunt
England
Deer
Stand
Mock
Nations
Hunts
Poor
Prey
Fear
Devoted
Swarm
Art
Ill
Beset

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The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.
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Fanaticism, the false fire of an overheated mind.
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Even in the stifling bosom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothes the rich possessor much consol'd, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Or nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates.
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As if the world and they were hand and glove.
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Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
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The man to solitude accustom'd long, Perceives in everything that lives a tongue Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees Have speech for him, and understood with ease, After long drought when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all.
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Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart To modest cheeks, and borrowed one from art.
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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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Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same.
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Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
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There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart he does not feel for man.
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The beggarly last doit.
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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
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All zeal for a reform, that gives offence To peace and charity, is mere pretence.
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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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The man that dares traduce, because he can with safety to himself, is not a man.
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Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oftenest in what least we dread Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow.
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God made the country, and man made the town.
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The solemn fop significant and budge A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge
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The man that hails you Tom or Jack, and proves by thumps upon your back how he esteems your merit, is such a friend, that one had need be very much his friend indeed to pardon or to bear it.
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