And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be follow’d perhaps by a smile.
WILLIAM COWPERBuilt God a church and laughed His word to scorn.
More William Cowper Quotes
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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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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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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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Time, as he passes us, has a dove’s wing, Unsoil’d, and swift, and of a silken sound.
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Satan trembles when he sees the weakest saint upon their knees.
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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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War’s a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
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Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame; He hides behind a magisterial air He own offences, and strips others’ bare.
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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another’s pain.
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The only amaranthine flower on earth is virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth.
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Ceremony leads her bigots forth, prepared to fight for shadows of no worth.
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Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons to love it, too.
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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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Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilirate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature.
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A self-made man? Yes, and one who worships his creator.
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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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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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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
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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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Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.
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The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.
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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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Happy the man who sees a God employed in all the good and ills that checker life.
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But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease.
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The darkest day, if you live till tomorrow, will have passed away.
WILLIAM COWPER