There Daphne’s Lover stopped, and thought it much The very leaves of her to touch: But Harvey, our Apollo, stopp’d not so; Into the Bark and Root he after her did go!
ABRAHAM COWLEYBoth 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.
More Abraham Cowley Quotes
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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 -
Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
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.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
It was not sleep that made him nod, he said, But too great weight and largeness of his head.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Life is an incurable disease.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
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 -
Awake, awake, my Lyre!And tell thy silent master’s humble taleIn sounds that may prevail;Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
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.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Enjoy the present hour, Be thankful for the past, And neither fear nor wish Th’ approaches of the last.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
I might be master at last of a small house and a large garden, with very moderate conveniences joined to them, and there dedicate the remainder of my life to the culture of them and the study of nature.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape Who dost in every country change thy shape!
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
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Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
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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