God made bees, and bees made honey, God made man, and man made money,
WILLIAM COWPERAnd natural in gesture; much impress’d Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too; affectionate in look, And tender in address, as well becomes A messenger of grace to guilty men.
More William Cowper Quotes
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The only amaranthine flower on earth is virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth.
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Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.
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There is in souls a sympathy with sounds: And as the mind is pitch’d the ear is pleased With melting airs, or martial, brisk or grave; Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch’d within us, and the heart replies.
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There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
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Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e’en in age, and at our latest day.
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I am out of humanity’s reach.I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speech;I start at the sound of my own.
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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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The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.
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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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Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.
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The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.
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God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to performs
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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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No traveler e’er reached that blest abode who found not thorns and briers in his road.
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We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
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They whom truth and wisdom lead, can gather honey from a weed.
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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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[My kitten’s] gambols are not to be described, and would be incredible, if they could.
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Deep in unfathomable mines Of never failing skill He treasures up his bright designs,
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Still ending, and beginning still.
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The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flow’r. Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain; God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.
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Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.
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There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.
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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another’s pain.
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Blest be the art that can immortalize,–the art that baffles time’s tyrannic claim to quench it.
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O solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.
WILLIAM COWPER