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Nay, in death's hand, the grape-stone proves As strong as thunder is in Jove's.

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
Stones
Prove
Hand
Jove
Strong
Grape
Death
Grapes
Hands
Proves
Thunder
Stone

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Solitude can be used well by very few people. They who do must have a knowledge of the world to see the foolishness of it, and enough virtue to despise all the vanity.
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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
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Life is an incurable disease.
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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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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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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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A mighty pain to love it is, And 'tis a pain that pain to miss But, of all pains, the greatest pain Is to love, but love in vain.
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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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What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?
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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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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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Enjoy the present hour, Be thankful for the past, And neither fear nor wish Th' approaches of the last.
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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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May I a small house and large garden have And a few friends, And many books, both true.
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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
Abraham Cowley
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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
Abraham Cowley
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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
Abraham Cowley
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Curs'd be that wretch (Death's factor sure) who brought Dire swords into the peaceful world, and taught Smiths (who before could only make The spade, the plough-share, and the rake) Arts, in most cruel wise Man's left to epitomize!
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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
Abraham Cowley
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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
Abraham Cowley