When Harvey’s violent passion she did see, Began to tremble and to flee; Took sanctuary, like Daphne, in a tree
ABRAHAM COWLEYWhy dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit, Or what is worse, be left by it? Why dost thou load thyself when thou ‘rt to fly, Oh, man! ordain’d to die?
More Abraham Cowley Quotes
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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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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 -
The liberty of a people consists in being governed by laws which they have made themselves, under whatsoever form it be of government
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Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
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Awake, awake, my Lyre!And tell thy silent master’s humble taleIn sounds that may prevail;Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
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.”
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
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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Gold begets in brethren hate; Gold in families debate; Gold does friendship separate; Gold does civil wars create.
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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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There is some help for all the defects of fortune; for, if a man cannot attain to the length of his wishes, he may have his remedy by cutting of them shorter.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live.
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Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.
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Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep’rate friends.
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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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To th’ active Moon a quick brisk stroke he gave, To Saturn’s string a touch more sore and grave.
ABRAHAM COWLEY






