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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.

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
Wretched
Solitary
Loves
Company
Life

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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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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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The world's a scene of changes.
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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Life is an incurable disease.
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Nothing in Nature's sober found, But an eternal Health goes round. Fill up the Bowl then, fill it high-- Fill all the Glasses there for why Should every Creature Drink but I? Why, Man of Morals, tell me why?
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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
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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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Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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Fill the bowl with rosy wine, around our temples roses twine, And let us cheerfully awhile, like wine and roses, smile.
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Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
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Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
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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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Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape Who dost in every country change thy shape!
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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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s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
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Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces, and yet so humble too as not to scorn the meanest country cottages.
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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
Abraham Cowley