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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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Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends not on number, but the choice of friends.
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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
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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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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
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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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The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.
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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise, He who defers this work from day to day, Does on a river's bank expecting stay, Till the whole stream, which stopped him, should be gone, That runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on.
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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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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Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.
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The present is an eternal now.
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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
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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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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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The Sunflow'r, thinking 'twas for him foul shame To nap by daylight, strove t' excuse the blame It was not sleep that made him nod, he said, But too great weight and largeness of his head.
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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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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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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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