War’s a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
WILLIAM COWPERThe rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.
More William Cowper Quotes
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The Spirit breathes upon the Word and brings the truth to sight.
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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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The still small voice is wanted.
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[My kitten’s] gambols are not to be described, and would be incredible, if they could.
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The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.
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Satan trembles when he sees the weakest saint upon their knees.
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Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
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Ceremony leads her bigots forth, prepared to fight for shadows of no worth.
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Happy the man who sees a God employed in all the good and ills that checker life.
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Pride made the devil, and the devil made sin; So God made a cole-pit to put the devil in.
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Still ending, and beginning still.
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If my resolution to be a great man was half so strong as it is to despise the shame of being a little one.
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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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We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
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Tea – the cups that cheer but not inebriate.
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The man to solitude accustom’d long, Perceives in everything that lives a tongue; Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees Have speech for him, and understood with ease,
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Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
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Absence of proof is not proof of absence.
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The Cross! There, and there only (though the deist rave, and the atheist, if Earth bears so base a slave); There and there only, is the power to save.
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Heaven’s harmony is universal love.
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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
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…So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
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Remorse begets reform.
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God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to performs
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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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Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
WILLIAM COWPER