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.
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.
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.
You talk to me in parables.
You may have known that I'm no wordy man,
Fine speeches are the instruments of knaves
Or fools that use them, when they want good sense;
Needs no disguise nor ornament: be plain.
Children blessings seem, but torments are.
Honesty needs no disguise nor ornament; be plain.
Avoid the politic, the factious fool,
The busy, buzzing, talking harden'd knave;
The quaint smooth rogue that sins against his reason,
Calls saucy loud sedition public zeal,
And mutiny the dictates of his spirit.
False as the adulterate promises of favorites in power when poor men court them.
Cowards are scared with threatenings; boys are whipped into confession; but a steady mind acts of itself, ne'er asks the body counsel.
Base natures ever judge a thing above them, and hate a power they are too much obliged to.
Dame Fortune, like most others of the female sex, is generally most indulgent to the nimble-mettled blockheads.
Who's a prince or beggar in the grave?
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.
Love reigns a very tyrant in my heart.
And die with decency.
The poor sleep little.
No praying, it spoils business.
Clocks will go as they are set, but man, irregular man, is never constant, never certain.
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