135 Quotes by Abraham Cowley

A mighty pain to love it is,And 't is a pain that pain to miss;But of all pains, the greatest painIt is to love, but love in vain.

May I a small house and large garden have;And a few friends,And many books, both true.

What shall I do to be for ever known,And make the age to come my own?

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.

What shall I do to be forever know,And make the Age to come my own?I shall like Beasts or Common People dy,Unless you write my Elegy;Whilst others great by being born are grown,Their Mothers Labour, not their own.In this scale Gold, in th' other Fame does ly,The weight of that mounts this so high.These men are Fortunes Jewels, moulded bright; Brought forth with their own fire and light.If I, her vulgar stone for either look,Out of my self it must be strook.

What shall I do to be forever known,And make the Age to come my own?I shall like Beasts or Common People dy,Unless you write my Elegy;Whilst others great by being born are grown,Their Mothers Labour, not their own.In this scale Gold, in th' other Fame does ly,The weight of that mounts this so high.These men are Fortunes Jewels, moulded bright;Brought forth with their own fire and light.If I, her vulgar stone for either look,Out of my self it must be strook.

For men led by the Colour, and the Shape,Like Zeuxes Birds fly to the painted Grape;Some things do through our Judgment passAs through a Multiplying Glass.And sometimes, if the Object be too far,We take a Falling Meteor for a Star.

Be kind and considerate with your criticism. It's just as hard to write a bad book as it is to write a good book.

This wretched Inn, where we scarce stay to bait,We call our Dwelling-Place:We call one Step a Race:But angels in their full enlightened state,Angels, who Live, and know what ‘tis to Be,Who all the nonsense of our language see Who speak things, and our words, their ill-drawn pictures, scorn,When we, by a foolish figure, say,Behold an old man dead! then theySpeak properly, and cry, Behold a man-child born!