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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.

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
Great
Pray
Bard
Catholic
Bards
Thee
Bestow
Praying
Militant
Poet
Triumphant
Least
Hail
Religion
Poets
Care
Saint

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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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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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Fill the bowl with rosy wine, around our temples roses twine, And let us cheerfully awhile, like wine and roses, smile.
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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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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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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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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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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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
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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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His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?
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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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Why to mute fish should'st thou thyself discoverAnd not to me, thy no less silent lover?
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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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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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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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Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.
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