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Gold begets in brethren hate Gold in families debate Gold does friendship separate Gold does civil wars create.

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
Create
Begets
War
Wars
Hate
Separate
Doe
Civil
Families
Debate
Friendship
Gold
Brethren

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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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There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
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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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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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Thus would I double my life's fading spaceFor he that runs it well, runs twice his race.
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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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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Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.
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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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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
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Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.
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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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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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To-day is ours what do we fear? To-day is ours we have it here. Let's treat it kindly, that it may Wish, at least, with us to stay. Let's banish business, banish sorrow To the gods belong to-morrow.
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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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Curs'd be that wretch (Death's factor sure) who brought Dire swords into the peaceful world, and taught Smiths (who before could only make The spade, the plough-share, and the rake) Arts, in most cruel wise Man's left to epitomize!
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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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The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
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