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

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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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Oh, popular applause! what heart of man Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms? The wisest and the best feel urgent need Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales But swell'd into a gust--who then, alas! With all his canvas set, and inexpert, And therefore, heedless, can withstand thy power?
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Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
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Made poetry a mere mechanic art.
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... she, that will with kittens jest, Should bear a kitten's joke.
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Religion, richest favor of the skies.
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Good sense, good health, good conscience, and good fame,--all these belong to virtue, and all prove that virtue has a title to your love.
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A noisy man is always in the right.
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Twere better to be born a stone Of ruder shape, and feeling none, Than with a tenderness like mine And sensibilities so fine! Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell Forever in my native shell, Ordained to move when others please, Not for my own content or ease But toss'd and buffeted about, Now in the water and now out.
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A self-made man? Yes, and one who worships his creator.
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Go, mark the matchless working of the power That shuts within the seed the future flower Bids these in elegance of form excel. In color these, and those delight the smell Sends nature forth, the daughter of the skies, To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes.
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Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
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The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue.
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A teacher should be sparing of his smile.
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Man on the dubious waves of error toss'd.
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The only amaranthine flower on earth is virtue the only lasting treasure, truth.
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The man that dares traduce, because he can with safety to himself, is not a man.
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For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not?
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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!
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God made the country, and man made the town.
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