We might well call this short Mock-play of ours a Posie made of Weeds instead of Flowers; yet such have been presented to your noses, and there are such, I fear, who thought 'em Roses.
What a Devil is the Plot good for, but to bring in fine things?
Why, Sir, when I have anything to invent, I never trouble my head about it, as other men do; but presently turn over this Book, and there I have, at one view, all that Perseus, Montaigne, Seneca's Tragedies, Horace, Juvenal, Claudian, Pliny, Plutarch's lives, and the rest, have ever thought upon this subject: and so, in a trice, by leaving out a few words, or putting in others of my own, the business is done.
A Lady that was drown'd at Sea, and had a wave for her Winding sheet.
A mans fame and hayre grow most after death, and are both equally useless.
All these threatening storms, which, like impregnate Clouds, hover o'er our heads, will (when they once are grasp'd but by the eye of reason) melt into fruitful showers of blessings on the people.
Ay, now the Plot thickens very much upon us.
I drink, I huff, I strut, look big and stare; and all this I can do, because I dare.
Kisses are but like sands of gold and silver, found upon the ground which are not worth much themselves but as they promise a mine near too be dig'd.
Methinks, I see the wanton houres flee, and as they passe, turne back and laugh at me.
O! what a prodigal have I been of that most valuable of all possessions — Time!
Our Poets make us laugh at Tragœdy, and with their Comoedies they make us cry.
She that would raise a noble love must find ways to beget a passion for her mind; she must be that which she to the world would seem, for all true love is grounded on esteem: plainness and truth gain more a generous heart than all the crooked subtleties of art.
The blackest Ink of Fate, sure, was my Lot, and, when she writ my Name, she made a blot.
The world's a wood, in which all lose their way, though by a different path each goes astray.
There are few have Dana's fortune, to have God and gold togather.
The world's a wood, in which all lose their way,though by a different path each goes astray.
The world is made up, for the most part, of fools and knaves, both irreconcileable foes to truth.