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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.

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
Life
Pains
Mighty
Vain
Miss
Missing
Greatest
Pain
Love
Unrequited

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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
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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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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
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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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Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
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What a brave privilege is it to be free from all contentions, from all envying or being envied, from receiving or paying all kinds of ceremonies!
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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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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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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Why to mute fish should'st thou thyself discoverAnd not to me, thy no less silent lover?
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Man is too near all kinds of beasts,--a fawning dog, a roaring lion, a thieving fox, a robbing wolf, a dissembling crocodile, a treacherous decoy, and a rapacious vulture.
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Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.
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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends not on number, but the choice of friends.
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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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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?
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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
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