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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.

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
Little
Estate
Things
Estates
Love
Convenient
Cheerful
Almost
Company
Littleness
House
Feast
Littles
Confess

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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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s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
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But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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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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Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.
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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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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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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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To be a husbandman, is but a retreat from the city to be a philosopher, from the world or rather, a retreat from the world, as it is man's, into the world, as it is God's.
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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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Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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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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Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
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Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
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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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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
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Hope! fortune's cheating lottery when for one prize an hundred blanks there be!
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