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Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends not on number, but the choice of friends.

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
Choice
Depends
Numbers
Choices
Friends
Would
Acquaintance
Friendship
Number

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Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live.
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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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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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The monster London laugh at me.
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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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Stones of small worth may lie unseen by day, But night itself does the rich gem betray.
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Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.
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Gold begets in brethren hate Gold in families debate Gold does friendship separate Gold does civil wars create.
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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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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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The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.
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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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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
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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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Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.
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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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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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May I a small house and large garden have And a few friends, And many books, both true.
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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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