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.
ABRAHAM COWLEYCurs’d be that wretch (Death’s factor sure) who brought Dire swords into the peaceful world, and taught Smiths (who before could only make.
More Abraham Cowley Quotes
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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 -
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 -
Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape Who dost in every country change thy shape!
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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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.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
Gold begets in brethren hate; Gold in families debate; Gold does friendship separate; Gold does civil wars create.
ABRAHAM COWLEY -
As 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 COWLEY -
But what is woman? Only one of nature’s agreeable blunders.
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Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live.
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Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.
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:Though so exalted sheAnd I so lowly beTell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
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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.
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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.
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Life is an incurable disease.
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And I myself a Catholic will be, So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee. Hail, Bard triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the Poets militant below.
ABRAHAM COWLEY