Our yesterday’s to-morrow now is gone, And still a new to-morrow does come on. We by to-morrow draw out all our store, Till the exhausted well can yield no more.
ABRAHAM COWLEYThe world’s a scene of changes.
More Abraham Cowley Quotes
-
-
Nothing in Nature’s sober found, But an eternal Health goes round. Fill up the Bowl then, fill it high
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
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 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 -
Poets by Death are conquer’d but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
It is a hard and nice subject for a man to speak of himself: it grates his own heart to say anything of disparagement, and the reader’s ear to hear anything of praise from him.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
The world’s a scene of changes.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Stones of small worth may lie unseen by day, But night itself does the rich gem betray.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
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 -
The 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 COWLEY -
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 -
Till the whole stream, which stopped him, should be gone, That runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
All the world’s bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
To th’ active Moon a quick brisk stroke he gave, To Saturn’s string a touch more sore and grave.
ABRAHAM COWLEY