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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.

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
Past
Lets
Find
Slips
Never
Occasions
Fortune
Behinds
Behind
Bald
Shall
Slip
Opportunity
Occasion

More quotes by Abraham Cowley

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Solitude can be used well by very few people. They who do must have a knowledge of the world to see the foolishness of it, and enough virtue to despise all the vanity.
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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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Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.
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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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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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May I a small house and large garden have And a few friends, And many books, both true.
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Enjoy the present hour, Be thankful for the past, And neither fear nor wish Th' approaches of the last.
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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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The present is an eternal now.
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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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Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces, and yet so humble too as not to scorn the meanest country cottages.
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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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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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
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There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
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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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His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
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Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
Abraham Cowley