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Water and air He for the Tenor chose, Earth made the Base, the Treble Fame arose,

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Solitude can be used well by very few people. They who do must have a knowledge of the world to see the foolishness of it, and enough virtue to despise all the vanity.
ABRAHAM COWLEY

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Coy Nature, (which remain’d, though aged grown, A beauteous virgin still, enjoy’d by none, Nor seen unveil’d by anyone),
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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep’rate friends.
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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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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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I never had any other desire so strong, and so like covetousness, as that
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Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
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Life is an incurable disease.
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There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
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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.
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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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Fill the bowl with rosy wine, around our temples roses twine, And let us cheerfully awhile, like wine and roses, smile.
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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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For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
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In fields d’or or d’argent; but, if heraldry were guided by reason, a plough in a field arable would be the most noble and ancient arms.”
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What a brave privilege is it to be free from all contentions, from all envying or being envied, from receiving or paying all kinds of ceremonies!
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The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.
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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!
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Water and air He for the Tenor chose, Earth made the Base, the Treble Fame arose,
ABRAHAM COWLEY

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The Sunflow’r, thinking ’twas for him foul shame To nap by daylight, strove t’ excuse the blame
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Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
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To th’ active Moon a quick brisk stroke he gave, To Saturn’s string a touch more sore and grave.
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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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But what is woman? Only one of nature’s agreeable blunders.
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All the world’s bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.
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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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