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

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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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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.
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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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Ah, yet, e'er I descend to th' grave, May I a small House and a large Garden have. And a few Friends, and many Books both true, Both wise, and both delightful too. And since Love ne'er will from me flee, A mistress moderately fair, And good as Guardian angels are, Only belov'd and loving me.
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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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The present is an eternal now.
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Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape Who dost in every country change thy shape!
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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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Enjoy the present hour, Be thankful for the past, And neither fear nor wish Th' approaches of the last.
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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
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Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends not on number, but the choice of 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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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.
Abraham Cowley
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Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit, Or what is worse, be left by it? Why dost thou load thyself when thou 'rt to fly, Oh, man! ordain'd to die? Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high, Thou who art under ground to lie? Thou sow'st and plantest, but no fruit must see, For death, alas! is reaping thee.
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Life is an incurable disease.
Abraham Cowley
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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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All the world's bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.
Abraham Cowley
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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.
Abraham Cowley
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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
Abraham Cowley