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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.

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
Triumphs
Wit
Poets
Conquer
Triumph
Poet
Death

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And I myself a Catholic will be, So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee. Hail, Bard triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the Poets militant below.
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.
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We may talk what we please, he cries in his enthusiasm for the oldest of the arts, of lilies, and lions rampant, and spread eagles, in fields d'or or d'argent but, if heraldry were guided by reason, a plough in a field arable would be the most noble and ancient arms.
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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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Enjoy the present hour, Be thankful for the past, And neither fear nor wish Th' approaches of the 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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s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
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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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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
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When Israel was from bondage led,Led by the Almighty's handFrom out of foreign land,The great sea beheld and fled.
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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.
Abraham Cowley
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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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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
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Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.
Abraham Cowley
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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
Abraham Cowley
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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
Abraham Cowley
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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
Abraham Cowley