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

Abraham Cowley

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Abraham Cowley
Age: 49 †
Born: 1618
Born: January 1
Died: 1667
Died: July 28
Essayist
Playwright
Poet
Prosaist
the City
Lasts
Last
Past
Doe
Come
Nothing
Always
Eternity
Time
Eternal

More quotes by Abraham Cowley

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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
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s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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Why to mute fish should'st thou thyself discoverAnd not to me, thy no less silent lover?
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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.
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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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Enjoy the present hour, Be thankful for the past, And neither fear nor wish Th' approaches of the last.
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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.
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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.
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There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
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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.
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May I a small house and large garden have And a few friends, And many books, both true.
Abraham Cowley
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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.
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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
Abraham Cowley
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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.
Abraham Cowley
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Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.
Abraham Cowley
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Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces, and yet so humble too as not to scorn the meanest country cottages.
Abraham Cowley
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His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
Abraham Cowley