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Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!

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
Vain
Rise
Eternity
Weak
Built
Isthmus
Two
Eternities
Life
Dost
Proudly

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Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape Who dost in every country change thy shape!
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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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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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May I a small house and large garden have And a few friends, And many books, both true.
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All the world's bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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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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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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Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.
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The world's a scene of changes.
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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit, Or what is worse, be left by it? Why dost thou load thyself when thou 'rt to fly, Oh, man! ordain'd to die? Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high, Thou who art under ground to lie? Thou sow'st and plantest, but no fruit must see, For death, alas! is reaping thee.
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The Sunflow'r, thinking 'twas for him foul shame To nap by daylight, strove t' excuse the blame It was not sleep that made him nod, he said, But too great weight and largeness of his head.
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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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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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Life is an incurable disease.
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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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Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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