Ambition is a lust that is never quenched, but grows more inflamed and madder by enjoyment.
How many men
Have spent their blood in their dear country's service,
Yet now pine under want; while selfish slaves,
That even would cut their throats whom now they fawn on,
Like deadly locusts, eat the honey up,
Which those industrious bees so hardly toil'd for.
Honest men are the soft easy cushions on which knaves repose and fatten.
Who can describe
Women's hypocrisies! their subtle wiles,
Betraying smiles, feign'd tears, inconstancies!
Their painted outsides, and corrupted minds,
The sum of all their follies, and their falsehoods.
Who's a prince or beggar in the grave?
What mighty ills have not been done by woman!
Who was't betray'd the Capitol? A woman;
Who lost Mark Antony the world? A woman;
Who was the cause of a long ten years' war,
And laid at last old Troy is ashes? Woman;
Destructive, damnable, deceitful woman!
You wags that judge by rote, and damn by rule.
Oh woman! lovely woman! nature made thee To temper man; we had been brutes without you; Angels are painted fair to look like you; There's in you all that we believe of heaven, Amazing brightness, purity, and truth, Eternal joy, and everlasting love.
If we must part forever,
Give me but one kind word to think upon,
And please myself with, while my heart's breaking.
Honesty was a cheat invented first To bind the hands of bold deserving rogues, That fools and cowards might sit safe in power, And lord it uncontroll'd above their betters.
If love be treasure, we'll be wondrous rich.
No praying, it spoils business.
Home I would go But that my doors are hateful to my eyes, Fill'd and damm'd up with gaping creditors, Watchful as fowlers when their game will spring.
I may boldly speak In right, though proud oppression will not hear me!
No flattery, boy! an honest man cannot live by it; it is a little, sneaking art, which knaves use to cajole and soften fools withal.
Ere man's corruptions made him wretched, he Was born most noble that was born most free; Each of himself was lord; and unconfin'd Obey'd the dictates of his godlike mind.
And for an apple damn'd mankind.
Revenge, the attribute of gods! They stamped it with their great image on our natures.
There is such sweet pain in parting that I could hang forever on thine arms, and look away my life into thine eyes.
O woman! lovely woman! Nature made thee
To temper man: we had been brutes without you.
Dame Fortune, like most others of the female sex, is generally most indulgent to the nimble-mettled blockheads.
Shining through tears, like April suns in showers, that labor to overcome the cloud that loads em.
Greatness, thou gaudy torment of out souls,
The wise man's fetter, and the rage of fools.
The worst thing an old man can be is a lover.
Could my griefs speak, the tale would have no end.
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