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What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?

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
Age
Known
Ever
Come
Make
Reputation
Shall

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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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Nay, in death's hand, the grape-stone proves As strong as thunder is in Jove's.
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The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
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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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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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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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There is some help for all the defects of fortune for, if a man cannot attain to the length of his wishes, he may have his remedy by cutting of them shorter.
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Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.
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Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.
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I confess I love littleness almost in all things. A little convenient estate, a little cheerful house, a little company, and a little feast.
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Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live.
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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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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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The monster London laugh at me.
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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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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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Stones of small worth may lie unseen by day, But night itself does the rich gem betray.
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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.
Abraham Cowley