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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
City
Cities
Firsts
First
Made
Cain
Garden

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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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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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The present is an eternal now.
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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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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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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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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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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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Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.
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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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Gold begets in brethren hate Gold in families debate Gold does friendship separate Gold does civil wars create.
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The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
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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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Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.
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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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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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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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The world's a scene of changes.
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The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.
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