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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.

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
Today
Hide
Would
Clouds
Sun
Fate
Beams
Lived
Boldly
Wish
Beam
Fear
Morrow
Night
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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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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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I never had any other desire so strong, and so like covetousness, as that ... I might be master at last of a small house and a large garden, with very moderate conveniences joined to them, and there dedicate the remainder of my life to the culture of them and the study of nature.
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There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
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I confess I love littleness almost in all things. A little convenient estate, a little cheerful house, a little company, and a little feast.
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The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.
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Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.
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What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?
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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
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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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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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Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape Who dost in every country change thy shape!
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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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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.
Abraham Cowley
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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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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
Abraham Cowley
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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.
Abraham Cowley