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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.

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
Draws
Morrow
Gone
Exhausted
Stills
Store
Doe
Yield
Still
Stores
Wells
Till
Come
Draw
Well
Yesterday

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The world's a scene of changes.
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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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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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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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Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise, He who defers this work from day to day, Does on a river's bank expecting stay, Till the whole stream, which stopped him, should be gone, That runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on.
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Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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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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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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Hope! fortune's cheating lottery when for one prize an hundred blanks there be!
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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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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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Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.
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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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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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All the world's bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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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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Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
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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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Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live.
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