Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
ABRAHAM COWLEYGold begets in brethren hate; Gold in families debate; Gold does friendship separate; Gold does civil wars create.
More Abraham Cowley Quotes
-
-
Ah, yet, e’er I descend to th’ grave, May I a small House and a large Garden have. And a few Friends, and many Books both true
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
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 -
Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
The Sunflow’r, thinking ’twas for him foul shame To nap by daylight, strove t’ excuse the blame
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning’s gentle wine!
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
A 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 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 -
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 -
His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong; his life, I’m sure, was in the right.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
To be a husbandman, is but a retreat from the city; to be a philosopher, from the world; or rather, a retreat from the world, as it is man’s, into the world, as it is God’s.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
To th’ active Moon a quick brisk stroke he gave, To Saturn’s string a touch more sore and grave.
ABRAHAM COWLEY