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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
Friends
Would
Acquaintance
Friendship
Number
Choice
Depends
Numbers
Choices

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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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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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Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.
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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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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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The present is an eternal now.
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Hope! fortune's cheating lottery when for one prize an hundred blanks there be!
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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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The liberty of a people consists in being governed by laws which they have made themselves, under whatsoever form it be of government the liberty of a private man, in being master of his own time and actions, as far as may consist with the laws of God and of his country.
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I would not fear nor wish my fate, but boldly say each night, to-morrow let my sun his beams display, or in clouds hide them I have lived today.
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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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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
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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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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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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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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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Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
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Life is an incurable disease.
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