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

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A self-made man? Yes, and one who worships his creator.
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Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.
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Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name, But England's Milton equals both in fame.
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This fond attachment to the well-known place Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day.
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Hast thou not learnd what thou art often told, A truth still sacred, and believed of old, That no success attends on spears and swords Unblest, and that the battle is the Lords?
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The proud are ever most provoked by pride.
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They fix attention, heedless of your pain, With oaths like rivets forced into the brain And e'en when sober truth prevails throughout, They swear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt.
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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
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But poverty, with most who whimper forth Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe The effect of laziness, or sottish write.
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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 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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There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
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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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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
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Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.
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Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.
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A teacher should be sparing of his smile.
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A life of ease is a difficult pursuit.
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I pity bashful men, who feel the pain Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain, And bear the marks upon a blushing face, OF needless shame, and self-impos'd disgrace.
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Laugh at all you trembled at before.
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