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

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Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends not on number, but the choice of friends.
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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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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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Life is an incurable disease.
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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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To-day is ours what do we fear? To-day is ours we have it here. Let's treat it kindly, that it may Wish, at least, with us to stay. Let's banish business, banish sorrow To the gods belong to-morrow.
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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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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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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live.
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Nothing in Nature's sober found, But an eternal Health goes round. Fill up the Bowl then, fill it high-- Fill all the Glasses there for why Should every Creature Drink but I? Why, Man of Morals, tell me why?
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The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.
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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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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
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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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Thus would I double my life's fading spaceFor he that runs it well, runs twice his race.
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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.
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
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