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

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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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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?
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Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
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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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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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Hope! fortune's cheating lottery when for one prize an hundred blanks there be!
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This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.
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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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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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Life is an incurable disease.
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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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The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.
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Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.
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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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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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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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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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Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.
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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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