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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
Eternities
Two
Dost
Life
Proudly

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Nothing in Nature's sober found, But an eternal Health goes round. Fill up the Bowl then, fill it high-- Fill all the Glasses there for why Should every Creature Drink but I? Why, Man of Morals, tell me why?
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Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends not on number, but the choice of friends.
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Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
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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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This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.
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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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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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Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.
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Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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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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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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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
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Man is too near all kinds of beasts,--a fawning dog, a roaring lion, a thieving fox, a robbing wolf, a dissembling crocodile, a treacherous decoy, and a rapacious vulture.
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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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What a brave privilege is it to be free from all contentions, from all envying or being envied, from receiving or paying all kinds of ceremonies!
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Gold begets in brethren hate Gold in families debate Gold does friendship separate Gold does civil wars create.
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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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The world's a scene of changes.
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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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