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s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.

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
Changes
Constant
Scene
Nature
Change
Inconstancy

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Stones of small worth may lie unseen by day, But night itself does the rich gem betray.
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This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.
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We may talk what we please, he cries in his enthusiasm for the oldest of the arts, of lilies, and lions rampant, and spread eagles, in fields d'or or d'argent but, if heraldry were guided by reason, a plough in a field arable would be the most noble and ancient arms.
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His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
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Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.
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A mighty pain to love it is, And 'tis a pain that pain to miss But, of all pains, the greatest pain Is to love, but love in vain.
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Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.
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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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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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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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The present is an eternal now.
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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
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Gold begets in brethren hate Gold in families debate Gold does friendship separate Gold does civil wars create.
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Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.
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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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And I myself a Catholic will be, So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee. Hail, Bard triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the Poets militant below.
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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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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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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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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?
Abraham Cowley