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The Sunflow'r, thinking 'twas for him foul shame To nap by daylight, strove t' excuse the blame It was not sleep that made him nod, he said, But too great weight and largeness of his head.

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
Weight
Twas
Head
Sunflower
Sleep
Naps
Great
Daylight
Made
Foul
Thinking
Excuse
Shame
Largeness
Blame
Strove

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Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends not on number, but the choice of friends.
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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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The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
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All the world's bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.
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What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?
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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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The monster London laugh at me.
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Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
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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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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.
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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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Hope! fortune's cheating lottery when for one prize an hundred blanks there be!
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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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