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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
Constant
Scene
Nature
Change
Inconstancy
Changes

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Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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When Israel was from bondage led,Led by the Almighty's handFrom out of foreign land,The great sea beheld and fled.
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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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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?
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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.
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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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I would not fear nor wish my fate, but boldly say each night, to-morrow let my sun his beams display, or in clouds hide them I have lived today.
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Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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Fill the bowl with rosy wine, around our temples roses twine, And let us cheerfully awhile, like wine and roses, smile.
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What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?
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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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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
Abraham Cowley
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Hope! fortune's cheating lottery when for one prize an hundred blanks there be!
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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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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.
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To be a husbandman, is but a retreat from the city to be a philosopher, from the world or rather, a retreat from the world, as it is man's, into the world, as it is God's.
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Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.
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