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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
Death
Triumphs
Wit
Poets
Conquer
Triumph
Poet

More quotes by Abraham Cowley

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s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
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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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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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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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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
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The present is an eternal now.
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Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.
Abraham Cowley
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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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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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May I a small house and large garden have And a few friends, And many books, both true.
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Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.
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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.
Abraham Cowley
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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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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.
Abraham Cowley
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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
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Why to mute fish should'st thou thyself discoverAnd not to me, thy no less silent lover?
Abraham Cowley
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Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
Abraham Cowley
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To be a husbandman, is but a retreat from the city to be a philosopher, from the world or rather, a retreat from the world, as it is man's, into the world, as it is God's.
Abraham Cowley
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Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
Abraham Cowley