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This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.

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
Mean
Grants
Contempt
Envy
Lows
High
Lying
Means
Scorn
May
Grant

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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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To-day is ours what do we fear? To-day is ours we have it here. Let's treat it kindly, that it may Wish, at least, with us to stay. Let's banish business, banish sorrow To the gods belong to-morrow.
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Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
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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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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.
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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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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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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.
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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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We may talk what we please, he cries in his enthusiasm for the oldest of the arts, of lilies, and lions rampant, and spread eagles, in fields d'or or d'argent but, if heraldry were guided by reason, a plough in a field arable would be the most noble and ancient arms.
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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
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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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Enjoy the present hour, Be thankful for the past, And neither fear nor wish Th' approaches of the last.
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Gold begets in brethren hate Gold in families debate Gold does friendship separate Gold does civil wars create.
Abraham Cowley
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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
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Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends not on number, but the choice of friends.
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It is a hard and nice subject for a man to speak of himself: it grates his own heart to say anything of disparagement, and the reader's ear to hear anything of praise from him.
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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
Abraham Cowley