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 COWLEYI confess I love littleness almost in all things. A little convenient estate, a little cheerful house, a little company, and a little feast.
ABRAHAM COWLEYAll the world’s bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.
ABRAHAM COWLEYThere 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 COWLEYThe 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 COWLEYNeither the praise nor the blame is our own.
ABRAHAM COWLEYPoets by Death are conquer’d but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
ABRAHAM COWLEYThe liberty of a private man, in being master of his own time and actions, as far as may consist with the laws of God and of his country.
ABRAHAM COWLEYI 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.
ABRAHAM COWLEYTo th’ active Moon a quick brisk stroke he gave, To Saturn’s string a touch more sore and grave.
ABRAHAM COWLEYPlenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
ABRAHAM COWLEYAs for being much known by sight, and pointed out, I cannot comprehend the honor that lies withal; whatsoever it be, every mountebank has it more than the best doctor.
ABRAHAM COWLEYI never had any other desire so strong, and so like covetousness, as that
ABRAHAM COWLEYIt was not sleep that made him nod, he said, But too great weight and largeness of his head.
ABRAHAM COWLEYWho lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
ABRAHAM COWLEYA mighty pain to love it is, And ’tis a pain that pain to miss; But, of all pains, the greatest pain Is to love, but love in vain.
ABRAHAM COWLEYNature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; ‘Tis fill’d wherever thou dost tread, Nature’s self’s thy Ganymede.
ABRAHAM COWLEY