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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.

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
Made
Cain
Garden
City
Cities
Firsts
First

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Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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Thus would I double my life's fading spaceFor he that runs it well, runs twice his race.
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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
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Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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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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Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
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Man is too near all kinds of beasts,--a fawning dog, a roaring lion, a thieving fox, a robbing wolf, a dissembling crocodile, a treacherous decoy, and a rapacious vulture.
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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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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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Gold begets in brethren hate Gold in families debate Gold does friendship separate Gold does civil wars create.
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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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May I a small house and large garden have And a few friends, And many books, both true.
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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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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
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Ah, yet, e'er I descend to th' grave, May I a small House and a large Garden have. And a few Friends, and many Books both true, Both wise, and both delightful too. And since Love ne'er will from me flee, A mistress moderately fair, And good as Guardian angels are, Only belov'd and loving me.
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Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
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The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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