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Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.

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
Virtue
Pleasure
Consoles
Pain
Stings
Even
Console
Pains
Pleasures
Vice
Vices

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Blest be the art that can immortalize.
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All we behold is miracle.
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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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Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.
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Whoever keeps an open ear For tattlers will be sure to hear The trumpet of contention.
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Gardening imparts an organic perspective on the passage of time.
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He that negotiates between God and man, As God's ambassador, the grand concerns Of judgment and of mercy, should beware Of lightness in his speech.
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Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
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There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.
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Pernicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys, Unfriendly to society's chief joys: Thy worst effect is banishing for hours The sex whose presence civilizes ours.
William Cowper
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There is a mixture of evil in everything we do indulgence encourages us to encroach, while we Crabbe exercise the rights of children, we become childish.
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Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.
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The proud are ever most provoked by pride.
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But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn, Shine by the side of every path we tread With such a lustre he that runs may read.
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Thieves at home must hang but he that puts Into his overgorged and bloated purse The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.
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My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
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Men deal with life as children with their play, Who first misuse, then cast their toys away.
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He that has seen both sides of fifty has lived to little purpose if he has no other views of the world than he had when he was much younger.
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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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Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid, In every bosom where her nest is made, Hatched by the beams of truth, denies him rest, And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.
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