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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
Number
Choice
Depends
Numbers
Choices
Friends
Would
Acquaintance
Friendship

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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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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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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 present is all the ready money Fate can give.
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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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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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The world's a scene of changes.
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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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Life is an incurable disease.
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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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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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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate 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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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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Enjoy the present hour, Be thankful for the past, And neither fear nor wish Th' approaches of the last.
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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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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
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Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape Who dost in every country change thy shape!
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