God made bees, and bees made honey, God made man, and man made money,
WILLIAM COWPERWe turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
More William Cowper Quotes
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Remorse begets reform.
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To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think.
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Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons to love it, too.
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He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not color’d like his own, and having pow’r T’ enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
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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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The only amarantine flower on earth Is virtue.
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I will pray, therefore, for blessings on my friends, even though they cease to be so, and upon my enemies, though they continue such.
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The only true happiness comes from squandering ourselves for a purpose.
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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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Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e’en in age, and at our latest day.
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Deep in unfathomable mines Of never failing skill He treasures up his bright designs,
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Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
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When nations are to perish in their sins, ’tis in the Church the leprosy begins.
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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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Sends Nature forth the daughter of the skies… To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes.
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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
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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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God made the country, and man made the town.
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After long drought when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all.
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The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.
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What we admire we praise; and when we praise, Advance it into notice, that its worth Acknowledged, others may admire it too.
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What peaceful hours I once enjoy’d! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.
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Time, as he passes us, has a dove’s wing, Unsoil’d, and swift, and of a silken sound.
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How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.
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The still small voice is wanted.
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There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.
WILLIAM COWPER