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Stones of small worth may lie unseen by day, But night itself does the rich gem betray.

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
Unseen
May
Betray
Stones
Worth
Small
Rich
Lying
Gems
Night
Jewels

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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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Thus would I double my life's fading spaceFor he that runs it well, runs twice his race.
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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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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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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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Hope! fortune's cheating lottery when for one prize an hundred blanks there be!
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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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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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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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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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I confess I love littleness almost in all things. A little convenient estate, a little cheerful house, a little company, and a little feast.
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Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape Who dost in every country change thy shape!
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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
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The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
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Does not the passage of Moses and the Israelites into the Holy Land yield incomparably more poetic variety than the voyages of Ulysses or Aeneas?
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Nothing in Nature's sober found, But an eternal Health goes round. Fill up the Bowl then, fill it high-- Fill all the Glasses there for why Should every Creature Drink but I? Why, Man of Morals, tell me why?
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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
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