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Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape Who dost in every country change thy shape!

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
Country
Apes
Every
Fantastic
Wild
Shape
Thou
Shapes
Beauty
Change
Dost

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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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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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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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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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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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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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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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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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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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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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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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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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Why to mute fish should'st thou thyself discoverAnd not to me, thy no less silent lover?
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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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Life is an incurable disease.
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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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