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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.

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
Wells
Extreme
Well
Extremes
Plenty
Thus
Rate
Danger
Equal
Friends
Tends

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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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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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The monster London laugh at me.
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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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Enjoy the present hour, Be thankful for the past, And neither fear nor wish Th' approaches of the last.
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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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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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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
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s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
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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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Stones of small worth may lie unseen by day, But night itself does the rich gem betray.
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Life is an incurable disease.
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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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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.
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Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
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Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.
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Why to mute fish should'st thou thyself discoverAnd not to me, thy no less silent lover?
Abraham Cowley