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

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Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
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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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Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.
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I never had any other desire so strong, and so like covetousness, as that ... I might be master at last of a small house and a large garden, with very moderate conveniences joined to them, and there dedicate the remainder of my life to the culture of them and the study of nature.
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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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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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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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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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Man is too near all kinds of beasts,--a fawning dog, a roaring lion, a thieving fox, a robbing wolf, a dissembling crocodile, a treacherous decoy, and a rapacious vulture.
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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
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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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The world's a scene of changes.
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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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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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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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Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.
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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
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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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