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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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As for being much known by sight, and pointed out, I cannot comprehend the honor that lies withal whatsoever it be, every mountebank has it more than the best doctor.
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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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Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
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Awake, awake, my Lyre!And tell thy silent master's humble taleIn sounds that may prevailSounds that gentle thoughts inspire:Though so exalted sheAnd I so lowly beTell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
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The present is an eternal now.
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Thus would I double my life's fading spaceFor he that runs it well, runs twice his race.
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The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
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Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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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!
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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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Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.
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All the world's bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.
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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.
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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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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
Abraham Cowley
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Why to mute fish should'st thou thyself discoverAnd not to me, thy no less silent lover?
Abraham Cowley
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Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.
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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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
Abraham Cowley