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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
Vain
Miss
Missing
Greatest
Pain
Love
Unrequited
Life
Pains
Mighty

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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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Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.
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Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
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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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I never had any other desire so strong, and so like covetousness, as that ... I might be master at last of a small house and a large garden, with very moderate conveniences joined to them, and there dedicate the remainder of my life to the culture of them and the study of nature.
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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.
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Hope! fortune's cheating lottery when for one prize an hundred blanks there be!
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There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
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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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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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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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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.
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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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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
Abraham Cowley