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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
Weak
Built
Isthmus
Two
Eternities
Life
Dost
Proudly
Vain
Rise
Eternity

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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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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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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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Why to mute fish should'st thou thyself discoverAnd not to me, thy no less silent lover?
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Hope! fortune's cheating lottery when for one prize an hundred blanks there be!
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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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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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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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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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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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I never had any other desire so strong, and so like covetousness, as that ... I might be master at last of a small house and a large garden, with very moderate conveniences joined to them, and there dedicate the remainder of my life to the culture of them and the study of nature.
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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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His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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And I myself a Catholic will be, So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee. Hail, Bard triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the Poets militant below.
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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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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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