Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilirate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature.
WILLIAM COWPERThe path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.
More William Cowper Quotes
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Manner is all in all, whate’er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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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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We are never more in danger than when we think ourselves most secure, nor in reality more secure than when we seem to be most in danger.
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Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.
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Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons to love it, too.
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Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
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The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear; And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.
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Absence of occupation is not rest; A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed.
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But oars alone can ne’er prevail To reach the distant coast; The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.
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Unless a love of virtue light the flame,
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Deep in unfathomable mines Of never failing skill He treasures up his bright designs,
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Nature is a good name for an effect whose cause is God.
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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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The proud are ever most provoked by pride.
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Truth is the golden girdle of the globe.
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I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, for how could we do without sugar and rum?
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War’s a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
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Existence is a strange bargain. Life owes us little; we owe it everything.
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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
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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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The still small voice is wanted.
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Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.
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Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa around, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
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Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
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Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.
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A heretic, my dear sir, is a fellow who disagrees with you regarding something neither of you knows anything about.
WILLIAM COWPER