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Does not the passage of Moses and the Israelites into the Holy Land yield incomparably more poetic variety than the voyages of Ulysses or Aeneas?

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
Bible
Ulysses
Holy
Voyages
Land
Moses
Doe
Passage
Passages
Poetic
Aeneas
Yield
Israelites
Variety
Incomparably

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Stones of small worth may lie unseen by day, But night itself does the rich gem betray.
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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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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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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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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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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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Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.
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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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Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.
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Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.
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Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
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Thus would I double my life's fading spaceFor he that runs it well, runs twice his race.
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Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
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All the world's bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.
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The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
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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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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
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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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