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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
Missing
Greatest
Pain
Love
Unrequited
Life
Pains
Mighty
Vain
Miss

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There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
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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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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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His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
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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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Nay, in death's hand, the grape-stone proves As strong as thunder is in Jove's.
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Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
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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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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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Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit, Or what is worse, be left by it? Why dost thou load thyself when thou 'rt to fly, Oh, man! ordain'd to die? Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high, Thou who art under ground to lie? Thou sow'st and plantest, but no fruit must see, For death, alas! is reaping thee.
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I confess I love littleness almost in all things. A little convenient estate, a little cheerful house, a little company, and a little feast.
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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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Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
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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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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.
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Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.
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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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Life is an incurable disease.
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