Quote

Fill the bowl with rosy wine, around our temples roses twine, And let us cheerfully awhile, like wine and roses, smile.

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
Fill
Twine
Rose
Cheerfully
Smile
Rosy
Wine
Awhile
Around
Roses
Like
Bowl
Bowls
Temples

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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape Who dost in every country change thy shape!
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
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Hope! fortune's cheating lottery when for one prize an hundred blanks there be!
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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
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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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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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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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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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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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His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
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Awake, awake, my Lyre!And tell thy silent master's humble taleIn sounds that may prevailSounds that gentle thoughts inspire:Though so exalted sheAnd I so lowly beTell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
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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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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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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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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
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Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.
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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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