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Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.

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
Nothing
Praises
Men
Spirits
Encouragement
Raise
Raises
Praise
Soon
Spirit
Drooping

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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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Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.
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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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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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There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
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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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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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Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise, He who defers this work from day to day, Does on a river's bank expecting stay, Till the whole stream, which stopped him, should be gone, That runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on.
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Nay, in death's hand, the grape-stone proves As strong as thunder is in Jove's.
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Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.
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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends not on number, but the choice of friends.
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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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Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
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This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.
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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
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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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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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