Abraham Cowley

Nothing in Nature's sober found,
But an eternal Health goes round.
Fill up the Bowl then, fill read more

Nothing in Nature's sober found,
But an eternal Health goes round.
Fill up the Bowl then, fill it high--
Fill all the Glasses there; for why
Should every Creature Drink but I?
Why, Man of Morals, tell me why?

For the whole world, without a native home,
Is nothing but a prison of larger room.

For the whole world, without a native home,
Is nothing but a prison of larger room.

His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might
Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right.

His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might
Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right.

Happy insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
read more

Happy insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.

Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit
Of poets triumphs over it.

Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit
Of poets triumphs over it.