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Thus would I double my life's fading spaceFor he that runs it well, runs twice his race.

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
Race
Space
Running
Wells
Fading
Well
Double
Would
Runs
Life
Twice
Thus

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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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Life is an incurable disease.
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Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
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This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.
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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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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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Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
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Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
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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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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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What a brave privilege is it to be free from all contentions, from all envying or being envied, from receiving or paying all kinds of ceremonies!
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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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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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Nay, in death's hand, the grape-stone proves As strong as thunder is in Jove's.
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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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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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