"So smooth, so sweet, so silv'ry is thy voice, As, could they hear, the damn'd would make no noise, But listen to thee, walking in thy chamber, Melting melodious words to lutes of amber."

"Here we are all by day; by night we're hurl'd By dreams, each one into a sev'ral world."

"All things decay with time: the forest sees The growth and downfall of her aged trees; That timber tall, which threescore lusters stood The proud dictator of the state-like wood,— I mean (the sovereign of all plants) the oak— Droops, dies, and falls without the cleaver's stroke."

"Now is the time, when all the lights wax dim; And thou, Anthea, must withdraw from him Who was thy servant."

"For my embalming, sweetest, there will be No spices wanting when I'm laid by thee."

"Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score; Then to that twenty add a hundred more: A thousand to that hundred: so kiss on, To make that thousand up a million. Treble that million, and when that is done Let's kiss afresh, as when we first begun."

"But, ah! if empty dreams so please, Love give me more such nights as these."

"Small griefs find tongues: full casks are ever found To give (if any, yet) but little sound. Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know, That chiding streams betray small depth below."

"I have lost, and lately, these Many dainty mistresses."

"Love is a circle that doth restless move In the same sweet eternity of love."

"When one is past, another care we have: Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave."

"To get thine ends, lay bashfulness aside; Who fears to ask doth teach to be deny'd."

"Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones; come and buy. If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer: There, Where my Julia's lips do smile; There's the land, or cherry-isle, Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow."

"Some ask'd me where the rubies grew, And nothing I did say; But with my finger pointed to The lips of Julia."

"Is there no way to beget In my limbs their former heat? Æson had, as poets feign, Baths that made him young again: Find that medicine, if you can, For your dry decrepit man Who would fain his strength renew, Were it but to pleasure you."

"I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds and bowers, Of April, May, of June and July-flowers; I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes, Of bridegrooms, brides and of their bridal cakes; I write of youth, of love, and have access By these to sing of cleanly wantonness."

"I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall) Of heaven, and hope to have it after all."

"To read my book the virgin shy May blush while Brutus standeth by, But when he's gone, read through what's writ, And never stain a cheek for it."

"In sober mornings, do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse."

"Love's of itself too sweet; the best of all Is, when love's honey has a dash of gall."

"Fall on me like a silent dew, Or like those maiden showers Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptism o’er the flowers."

"When the rose reigns, and locks with ointments shine, Let rigid Cato read these lines of mine."

"Some ask'd how pearls did grow, and where; Then spoke I to my girl, To part her lips, and show'd them there The quarrelets of Pearl."

"Turn over a new leaf."

"Do but consider what an excellent thing sleep is: it is so inestimable a jewel that, if a tyrant would give his crown for an hour's slumber, it cannot be bought; of so beautiful a shape is it, that though a man lie with an Empress, his heart cannot beat quite till he leaves her embracements to be at rest with the other; yea, so greatly indebted are we to this kinsman of death, that we owe the better tributary, half of our life to him: and there is good cause why we should do so: for sleep is that golden chain that ties health and our bodies together. Who complains of want? of wounds? of cares? of great men's oppressions? of captivity? whilst he sleepeth? Beggars in their beds take as much pleasure as kings: can we therefore surfeit on this delicate Ambrosia? Can we drink too much of that whereof to taste too little tumbles us into a churchyard, and to use it but indifferently throws us into Bedlam? No, no, look upon Endymion, the moon's minion, who slept three score and fifteen years, and was not a hair the worse for it."

"We are ne’er like angels till our passion dies."

"Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? O sweet content! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd? O punishment!"

"The best of men That e’er wore earth about him was a sufferer; A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, The first true gentleman that ever breathed."

"I was ne’er so thrummed since I was a gentleman."

"ONAELIA: One step to human bliss is sweet revenge."

"This principle is old, but true as fate,— Kings may love treason, but the traitor hate."

"A wise man poor Is like a sacred book that’s never read,— To himself he lives, and to all else seems dead. This age thinks better of a gilded fool Than of a threadbare saint in wisdom’s school."

"And though mine arm should conquer twenty worlds, There ’s a lean fellow beats all conquerors."

"We thinke no greater blisse then such To be as be we would, When blessed none but such as be The same as be they should."

"To add to golden numbers golden numbers."

"My merry, merry, merry roundelay Concludes with Cupid’s curse: They that do change old love for new, Pray gods, they change for worse!"

"Honest labour bears a lovely face."

"ONAELIA:You are like common beadles, apt to lash Almost to death poor wretches not worth striking, But fawn with slavish flattery on damned vices So great men act them. You clap hands at those, Where the true poet indeed doth scorn to gild A gaudy tomb with glory of his verse, Which coffins stinking carrion."

"With that she dasht her on the lippes, So dyed double red: Hard was the heart that gave the blow, Soft were those lips that bled."

"What thing is love?—for (well I wot) love is a thing It is a prick, it is a sting, It is a pretty, pretty thing; It is a fire, it is a coal, Whose flame creeps in at every hole!"

"O Gentle Love, ungentle for thy deede, Thou makest my hart, A bloodie marke, With piercing shot to bleede.Shoote soft sweete Love, for feare thou shoote amisse, For feare too keene, Thy arrowes beene: And hit the hart, where my belovèd is.Too faire that fortune were, nor never I Shall be so blest, Among the rest: That love shall ceaze on her by simpathy.Then since with Love my prayers beare no boote, This doth remaine, To cease my paine, I take the wound, and die at Venus foote."

"Villain, a horse-- Villain, I say, give me a horse to fly, To swim the river, villain, and to fly."

"His golden locks time hath to silver turned; O time too swift! O swiftness never ceasing! His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurned, But spurned in vain; youth waneth by encreasing."

"His helmet now shall make a hive for bees, And lovers’ songs be turned to holy psalms; A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers, which are old age’s alms."

"QUEEN: But Hymen's torch, held downward, shall drop out, And for it, the mad Furies swing their brands About the bride-chamber."

"BALTHAZAR: I have a private coat for Italian stilettos, I can be treacherous with the Walloon, drunk with the Dutch, a chimney-sweeper with the Irish, a gentleman with the Welsh and true arrant thief with the English. What then is my country to me?"

"BALTHAZAR: Subjects may stumble, when kings walk astray. Thine acts shall be a new Apocrypha."

"BALTHAZAR: Sin is a raven croaking her own fall."