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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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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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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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The world's a scene of changes.
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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.
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The present is an eternal now.
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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 monster London laugh at me.
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Why to mute fish should'st thou thyself discoverAnd not to me, thy no less silent lover?
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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
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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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The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
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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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Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
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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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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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Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live.
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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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