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.
If we must part for ever,
Give me but one kind word to think upon,
And please myself withal, whilst my heart's breaking!
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!
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?
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.
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.
If love be treasure, we'll be wondrous rich.
Honesty needs no disguise nor ornament; be plain.
Let us embrace, and from this very moment vow an eternal misery together.
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.
Cowards are scared with threatenings; boys are whipped into confession; but a steady mind acts of itself, ne'er asks the body counsel.
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.
You wags that judge by rote, and damn by rule.
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.
The poor sleep little.
Clocks will go as they are set, but man, irregular man, is never constant, never certain.
Base natures ever judge a thing above them, and hate a power they are too much obliged to.
False as the adulterate promises of favorites in power when poor men court them.
Justice is lame as well as blind, amongst us.
Children blessings seem, but torments are.
The worst thing an old man can be is a lover.
Dame Fortune, like most others of the female sex, is generally most indulgent to the nimble-mettled blockheads.
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