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All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!

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
Ill
Dull
Noise
Comedy
World
Acted
Appears

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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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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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The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
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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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There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
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s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
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Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape Who dost in every country change thy shape!
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Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
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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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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
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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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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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His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
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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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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.
Abraham Cowley
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The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.
Abraham Cowley
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Why to mute fish should'st thou thyself discoverAnd not to me, thy no less silent lover?
Abraham Cowley
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Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit, Or what is worse, be left by it? Why dost thou load thyself when thou 'rt to fly, Oh, man! ordain'd to die? Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high, Thou who art under ground to lie? Thou sow'st and plantest, but no fruit must see, For death, alas! is reaping thee.
Abraham Cowley