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

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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
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The monster London laugh at me.
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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.
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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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Life is an incurable disease.
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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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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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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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Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
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All the world's bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.
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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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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
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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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This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.
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