Quotes
Quotes - Cowper
Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumour of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war,
Might never reach me more.
Mountains interposed
Make enemies of nations who had else,
Like kindred drops, been mingled into one.
I would not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd.
Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs
Receive our air, that moment they are free!
They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
Fast-anchor'd isle.
England, with all thy faults I love thee still,
My country!
Presume to lay their hand upon the ark
Of her magnificent and awful cause.
Praise enough
To fill the ambition of a private man,
That Chatham's language was his mother tongue.
There is a pleasure in poetic pains
Which only poets know.
Transforms old print
To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes
Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.
Reading what they never wrote,
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work,
And with a well-bred whisper close the scene.
Whoe'er was edified, themselves were not.
Variety's the very spice of life.
She that asks
Her dear five hundred friends.
His head,
Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er,
Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth,
But strong for service still, and unimpair'd.
Domestic happiness, thou only bliss
Of Paradise that has survived the fall!
Great contest follows, and much learned dust.
From reveries so airy, from the toil
Of dropping buckets into empty wells,
And growing old in drawing nothing up.
How various his employments whom the world
Calls idle, and who justly in return
Esteems that busy world an idler too!
Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utterance once again.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Which not even critics criticise.
What is it but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
And Katerfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wondering for his bread.
'T is pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,
To peep at such a world,--to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
