The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue.
William CowperYe fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds you so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break, With blessings on your head
William CowperMan disavows, and Deity disowns me: hell might afford my miseries a shelter; therefore hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all bolted against me.
William CowperSolitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
William Cowper