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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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Abraham Cowley
Age: 49 †
Born: 1618
Born: January 1
Died: 1667
Died: July 28
Essayist
Playwright
Poet
Prosaist
the City
Thyself
Lover
Fish
Fishes
Thou
Lovers
Silent
Mute
Less

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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 present is an eternal now.
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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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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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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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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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It is a hard and nice subject for a man to speak of himself: it grates his own heart to say anything of disparagement, and the reader's ear to hear anything of praise from him.
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The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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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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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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Gold begets in brethren hate Gold in families debate Gold does friendship separate Gold does civil wars create.
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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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All the world's bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.
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Curs'd be that wretch (Death's factor sure) who brought Dire swords into the peaceful world, and taught Smiths (who before could only make The spade, the plough-share, and the rake) Arts, in most cruel wise Man's left to epitomize!
Abraham Cowley
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Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.
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Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape Who dost in every country change thy shape!
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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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Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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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.
Abraham Cowley