Distribution Automatique

Thursday, November 27

Abraham Cowley

*Of My Self*

This only grant me that my means might lye
Too low for Envy, for Contempt too high.
Some honor I would have
Not from great deeds, but good alone
The unknown are better than the ill known.
Rumour can ope' the Grave
Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends
Not on the number, but the choice of Friends.

Books should, not business, entertain the Light ,
And sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
My House a Cottage, more
Than Palace, and should fitting be
For all my Use, no Luxury.
My garden painted o'er
With Nature's hand, not Arts; and pleasures yield,
*Horace* might envy in his Sabine field.

Thus would I double my Lifes fading space,
For he that runs it well, twice runs his race.
Add in this true delight,
These unbought sports, this happy State,
I would not fear or wish my fate
But boldly say each night,
Tomorrow let my Sun his beams display,
Or in clouds hide them; I have liv'd today.