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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?

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
Rose
Among
Reason
Would
Roses
Dwell
Smell

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What a brave privilege is it to be free from all contentions, from all envying or being envied, from receiving or paying all kinds of ceremonies!
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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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Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
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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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Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends not on number, but the choice of friends.
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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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There is some help for all the defects of fortune for, if a man cannot attain to the length of his wishes, he may have his remedy by cutting of them shorter.
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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
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The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.
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The world's a scene of changes.
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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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Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
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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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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.
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s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
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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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Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.
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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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Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces, and yet so humble too as not to scorn the meanest country cottages.
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The present is an eternal now.
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