Abraham Cowley Quotes
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Th' adorning thee with so much artIs but a barb'rous skill;'T is like the pois'ning of a dart,Too apt before to kill.
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To virgin minds, which yet their native whiteness hold,Not yet discoloured with the love of gold(That jaundice of the soul,Which makes it look so gilded and so foul)
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Lo, this great work, a Temple to thy praise,On polisht Pillars of strong Verse I raise!A Temple, where if Thou vouchsafe to dwell,It Solomons, and Herods shall excel.Too long the Muses-Land have Heathen bin;Their Gods too long were Dev'ils, and Vertues Sin;But Thou, Eternal Word, hast call'd forth MeTh' Apostle, to convert that World to Thee;
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The monster London laugh at me.
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Ev'en Thou my breast with such blest rage inspire,As mov'd the tuneful strings of Davids Lyre
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If of their pleasures and desires no end be found;God to their cares and fears will set no bound.What would content you? Who can tell?Ye fear so much to lose what you have gotAs if ye liked it well.Ye strive for more, as if ye liked it not.
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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:Though so exalted sheAnd I so lowly beTell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
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We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine,But search of deep philosophy,Wit, eloquence, and poetry;Arts which I lov'd, for they, my friend, were thine.
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His time is forever, everywhere his place.
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Hence, ye profane! I hate ye all,Both the great vulgar and the small.
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We griev'd, we sigh'd, we wept; we never blush'd before.
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Unable to corrupt, seek to destroy;And where their Poysons miss, the Sword employ.
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I sing the Man who Judahs Scepter boreIn that right hand which held the Crook before;Who from best Poet, best of Kings did grow;The two chief gifts Heav'n could on Man bestow.
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Let but thy wicked men from out thee go,And all the fools that crowd thee so,Even thou, who dost thy millions boast,A village less than Islington wilt grow,A solitude almost.
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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.
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Fill all the glasses there, for whyShould every creature drink but I?Why, man of morals, tell me why?
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Oh happy, (if his happiness he knows)The Countrey Swain! on whom kind Heav'n bestowsAt home all Riches that wise Nature needs;Whom the just Earth with easie plenty feeds.
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He saw the beauties of his shape and face,His female sweetness, and his manly grace
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Thus each extream to equal danger tends,Plenty as well as Want can separate Friends;