This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.
ABRAHAM COWLEYGold begets in brethren hate; Gold in families debate; Gold does friendship separate; Gold does civil wars create.
More Abraham Cowley Quotes
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The motions strait, and round, and swift, and slow, And short and long, were mixt and woven so, Did in such artful Figures smoothly fall, As made this decent measur’d dance of all. And this is Musick.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
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 -
To th’ active Moon a quick brisk stroke he gave, To Saturn’s string a touch more sore and grave.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Gold begets in brethren hate; Gold in families debate; Gold does friendship separate; Gold does civil wars create.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Curs’d be that wretch (Death’s factor sure) who brought Dire swords into the peaceful world, and taught Smiths (who before could only make.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
This a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Fill all the Glasses there; for why Should every Creature Drink but I? Why, Man of Morals, tell me why?
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
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.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
And I myself a Catholic will be, So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee. Hail, Bard triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the Poets militant below.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning’s gentle wine!
ABRAHAM COWLEY