Quote

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.

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
Make
Silent
Awake
Masters
Gentle
Thoughts
Sounds
Though
Humble
Sound
Notes
Lyre
Tell
Master
Lowly
May
Harmony
Prevail
Different
Inspire
Exalted

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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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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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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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There is some help for all the defects of fortune for, if a man cannot attain to the length of his wishes, he may have his remedy by cutting of them shorter.
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Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
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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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The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.
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All the world's bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.
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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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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.
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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.
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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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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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Life is an incurable disease.
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As for being much known by sight, and pointed out, I cannot comprehend the honor that lies withal whatsoever it be, every mountebank has it more than the best doctor.
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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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