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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.

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
Nests
Build
Forget
Book
Without
World
Nest

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The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
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Thus would I double my life's fading spaceFor he that runs it well, runs twice his race.
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Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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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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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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Does not the passage of Moses and the Israelites into the Holy Land yield incomparably more poetic variety than the voyages of Ulysses or Aeneas?
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Solitude can be used well by very few people. They who do must have a knowledge of the world to see the foolishness of it, and enough virtue to despise all the vanity.
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The liberty of a people consists in being governed by laws which they have made themselves, under whatsoever form it be of government the liberty of a private man, in being master of his own time and actions, as far as may consist with the laws of God and of his country.
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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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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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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
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His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
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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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Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.
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Hope! fortune's cheating lottery when for one prize an hundred blanks there be!
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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
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Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.
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To be a husbandman, is but a retreat from the city to be a philosopher, from the world or rather, a retreat from the world, as it is man's, into the world, as it is God's.
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