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Abraham Cowley

b: London, England, 0, 1618

d: , Jul 28, 1667

Abraham Cowley was an English poet born in the City of London late in 1618. He was one of the leading English poets of the 17th century, with 14 printings of his Works published between 1668 and 1721.

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Ah, yet, e'er I descend to th' grave, May I a small House and a large Garden have. And a few Friends, and many Books both true, Both wise, and both delightful too. And since Love ne'er will from me flee, A mistress moderately fair, And good as Guardian angels are, Only belov'd and loving me.

An harmless flaming meteor shone for hair, And fell adown his shoulders with losse care.

Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise, He who defers this work from day to day, Does on a river's bank expecting stay, Till the whole stream, which stopped him, should be gone, That runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on.

Books should, not Business, entertain the Light; And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.

Come, my best friends, my books! and lead me on.

Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.

Curs'd be that wretch (Death's factor sure) who brought Dire swords into the peaceful world, and taught Smiths (who before could only make The spade, the plough-share, and the rake) Arts, in most cruel wise Man's left to epitomize!

Does not the passage of Moses and the Israelites into the Holy Land yield incomparably more poetic variety than the voyages of Ulysses or Aeneas?

Enjoy the present hour, be thankful for the past, And neither fear nor wish th' approaches of the last.

Fain would I see that prodigal Who his to-morrow would bestow, For all old Homer's life e'er since he died till now.

For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.

God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.

Gold begets in brethren hate; Gold in families debate; Gold does friendship separate; Gold does civil wars create.

Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self's thy Ganymede.

Hence ye profane; I hate ye all; Both the great vulgar, and the small.

His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right.

His time's forever, everywhere his place.

Hope! of all ills that men endure, The only cheap and universal cure.

It is a hard and nice subject for a man to speak of himself: it grates his own heart to say anything of disparagement, and the reader's ear to hear anything of praise from him.

Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live.

Life is an incurable disease.

Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.

Money was made, not to command our will, But all out lawful pleasure to fulfil. Shame and woe to use, if we our wealth obey; The horse doth with the horseman run away.

Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.

Nature's self's thy Ganymede.

Nay, in death's hand, the grape-stone proves As strong as thunder is in Jove's.

Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.

Nothing in Nature's sober found, But an eternal Health goes round. Fill up the Bowl then, fill it high-- Fill all the Glasses there; for why Should every Creature Drink but I? Why, Man of Morals, tell me why?

Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.

Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.

Our yesterday's to-morrow now is gone, And still a new to-morrow does come on. We by to-morrow draw out all our store, Till the exhausted well can yield no more.

Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.

Poverty wants some, luxury many, and avarice all things.

Solitude can be used well by very few people. They who do must have a knowledge of the world to see the foolishness of it, and enough virtue to despise all the vanity.

Stones of small worth may lie unseen by day, But night itself does the rich gem betray.

Th' adorning thee with so much art Is but a barbarous skill; 'Tis like the poisoning of a dart, Too apt before to kill.

The first three men in the world were a gardener, a ploughman, and a grazier; and if any man object that the second of these was a murderer, I desire he would consider that as soon as he was so, he quitted our profession and turned builder.

The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.

The Sunflow'r, thinking 'twas for him foul shame To nap by daylight, strove t' excuse the blame; It was not sleep that made him nod, he said, But too great weight and largeness of his head.

The thirsty Earth soaks up the Rain, And drinks, and gapes for Drink again; The Plants suck in the Earth and are With constant Drinking fresh and fair.

The world is a scene of changes, and to be constant in nature were inconstancy.

There is some help for all the defects of fortune; for, if a man cannot attain to the length of his wishes, he may have his remedy by cutting of them shorter.

This only grant me, that my means may lie Too low for envy, for contempt too high.

Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.

To-day is ours; what do we fear? To-day is ours; we have it here. Let's treat it kindly, that it may Wish, at least, with us to stay. Let's banish business, banish sorrow; To the gods belong to-morrow.

To-morrow let my sun his beams display, Or in clouds hide them: I have lived to-day.

Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!

Water and air He for the Tenor chose, Earth made the Base, the Treble Fame arose, To th' active Moon a quick brisk stroke he gave, To Saturn's string a touch more sore and grave. The motions strait, and round, and swift, and slow, And short and long, were mixt and woven so, Did in such artful Figures smoothly fall, As made this decent measur'd dance of all. And this is Musick.

We griev'd, we sigh'd, we wept; we never blushed before.

What shall I do to be forever known, And make the age to come my own?

Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.

Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?

Words that weep, and tears that speak.