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

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The present is an eternal now.
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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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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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Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.
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The liberty of a people consists in being governed by laws which they have made themselves, under whatsoever form it be of government the liberty of a private man, in being master of his own time and actions, as far as may consist with the laws of God and of his country.
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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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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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Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live.
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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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The world's a scene of changes.
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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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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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Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.
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Life is an incurable disease.
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s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
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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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This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.
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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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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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Awake, awake, my Lyre!And tell thy silent master's humble taleIn sounds that may prevailSounds that gentle thoughts inspire:Though so exalted sheAnd I so lowly beTell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
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