Thomas Nashe

"What is Logicke but the highe waie to wrangling, contayning in it a world of bibble babble. Neede we anie of your Greeke, Latine, Hebrue, or anie such gibbrige, when wee have the word of God in English?"

"Evermore mayst thou be canonized as the Nonparreille of impious epistlers."

"The Sun shineth as well on the good as the bad: God from on high beholdeth all the workers of iniquity, as well as the upright of heart."

"O, 'tis a precious apophthegmatical pedant who will find matter enough to dilate a whole day of the first invention of “Fy, fa, fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman.”"

"Dreaming is no other than groaning, while sleep our surgeon hath us in cure."

"A dream is nothing else but the echo of our conceits in the day."

"A dream is nothing else but a bubbling scum or froth of the fancy, which the day hath left undigested; or an after-feast made of the fragments of idle imaginations."

"Fair Summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore: So fair a summer look for never more. All good things vanish, less than in a day, Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay. Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year; The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear."

"Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant King, Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu wee, to witta woo!"

"Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day."

"The fields breath sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit."

"Blest is that government where no art thrives."

"Adieu, farewell earth’s bliss, This world uncertain is, Fond are life’s lustful joys, Death proves them all but toys, None from his darts can fly; I am sick, I must die: Lord, have mercy on us."

"Beauty is but a flower Which wrinkles will devour."

"Brightness falls from the air, Queens have died young and fair, Dust hath closed Helen's eye. I am sick, I must die: Lord, have mercy on us."

"Strength stoops unto the grave, Worms feed on Hector brave, Swords may not fight with fate, Earth still holds ope her gate. Come, come, the bells do cry. I am sick, I must die."

"From winter, plague, and pestilence, good Lord, deliver us."