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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. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour;

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Feeble Grace Judging Lord People Person Sweet

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England with all thy faults, I love thee still– My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee.
WILLIAM COWPER

Country Fault Love May Mind Still
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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The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.
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Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
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I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause.
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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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Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
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A fool must now and then be right, by chance
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They whom truth and wisdom lead, can gather honey from a weed.
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This fond attachment to the well-known place Whence first we started into life’s long race.
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There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
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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 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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The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, / whom, snoring, she disturbs.
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Truth is the golden girdle of the globe.
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Globe Golden Griddle Truth
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.
WILLIAM COWPER

Lodge Solitude Some Successful War Wilderness

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