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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.

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
Great
Misfortunes
Men
Despise
Object
Noble
Objects
Struggle
Despises
Littles
Contemptible
Little
Struggling

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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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I seem forsaken and alone, / I hear the lion roar / And every door is shut but one, / And that is Mercy's door.
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Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.
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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.
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God forbid that Judges upon their oath should make resolutions to enlarge jurisdiction.
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They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own.
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England, with all thy faults I love thee still, My country!
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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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A moral, sensible, and well-bred manWill not affront me, and no other can.
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Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world to see the stir Of the Great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
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War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
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Oh to have a lodge in some vast wilderness. Where rumors of oppression and deceit, of unsuccessful and successful wars may never reach me anymore.
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The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown, And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort, And mar the face of beauty, when no cause For such immeasurable woe appears These Flora banishes, and gives the fair Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own.
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The darkest day, if you live till tomorrow, will have passed away.
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All we behold is miracle.
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No, Freedom has a thousand charms to show That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.
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In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers, And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn: Object of my implacable disgust.
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God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.
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But conversation, choose what theme we may, And chiefly when religion leads the way, Should flow, like waters after summer show'rs, Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers.
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The parson knows enough who knows a Duke.
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