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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.

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
Much
Doctors
Every
Sight
Mountebank
Lies
Withal
Honor
Notoriety
Known
Comprehend
Lying
Pointed
Cannot
Whatsoever
Best
Doctor

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Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
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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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Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends not on number, but the choice of friends.
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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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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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His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
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Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
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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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There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
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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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Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live.
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The liberty of a people consists in being governed by laws which they have made themselves, under whatsoever form it be of government the liberty of a private man, in being master of his own time and actions, as far as may consist with the laws of God and of his country.
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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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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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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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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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And I myself a Catholic will be, So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee. Hail, Bard triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the Poets militant below.
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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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