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She that asks Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, And hates their coming.

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
Hates
Dear
Hundred
Coming
Asks
Five
Friends
Hate

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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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Man on the dubious waves of error toss'd.
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A noisy man is always in the right.
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I am out of humanity's reach.I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speechI start at the sound of my own.
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Misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case.
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Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
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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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Restraining prayer, we cease to fight Prayer keeps the Christian's armor bright And Satan trembles when he sees The weakest saint upon his knees.
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Pity! Religion has so seldom found A skilful guide into poetic ground! The flowers would spring where'er she deign'd to stray And every muse attend her in her way.
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Scenes must be beautiful which daily view'd Please daily, and whose novelty survives Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
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The path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.
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If a great man struggling with misfortunes is a noble object, a little man that despises them is no contemptible one.
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But what is truth? 'Twas Pilate's question put To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply.
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Some to the fascination of a name, Surrender judgment hoodwinked.
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Great offices will have great talents.
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I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute, From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
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Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heaven Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.
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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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How various his employments whom the world Calls idle and who justly in return Esteems that busy world an idler too!
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Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.
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