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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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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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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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The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
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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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There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
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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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Stones of small worth may lie unseen by day, But night itself does the rich gem betray.
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Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.
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All the world's bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
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Man is too near all kinds of beasts,--a fawning dog, a roaring lion, a thieving fox, a robbing wolf, a dissembling crocodile, a treacherous decoy, and a rapacious vulture.
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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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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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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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Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.
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Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
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The monster London laugh at me.
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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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