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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
Thus
Rate
Danger
Equal
Friends
Tends
Wells
Extreme
Well
Extremes
Plenty

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Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape Who dost in every country change thy shape!
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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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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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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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The world's a scene of changes.
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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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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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Thus would I double my life's fading spaceFor he that runs it well, runs twice his race.
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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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Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.
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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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Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.
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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends not on number, but the choice of friends.
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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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s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
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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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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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