Who covets more is evermore a slave.
The first act’s doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me.
Fight thou with shafts of silver, and o’ercome When no force else can get the masterdom.
I’ll write, because I’ll give – You critics means to live; For should I not supply – The cause, the effect would die.
Let’s live with that small pittance which we have; Who covets more is evermore a slave.
Welcome, maids of honor, You doe bring In the spring, And wait upon her.
The readiness of doing doth expresse No other but the doer’s willingnesse.
Art quickens nature; care will make a face; Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
When one is past, another care we have; Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.
What though the sea be calm? trust to the shore, Ships have been drown’d, where late they danc’d before.
When a daffadill I see, Hanging down his head towards me, Guess I may, what I must be: First, I shall decline my head; Secondly, I shall be dead: Lastly, safely buryed.
Temptations hurt not, though they have accesse; Satan o’ercomes none but by willingnesse.
Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table’s merriment.
Hell is no other but a soundlesse pit, Where no one beame of comfort peeps in it.
Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
Praise they that will times past, I joy to see My selfe now live: this age best pleaseth mee.
Who after his transgression doth repent, Is halfe, or altogether, innocent.
Hast thou attempted greatnesse? Then go on; Back-turning slackens resolution.
He who has suffered shipwreck, fears to sail Upon the seas, though with a gentle gale.
A careless shoe string, in whose tie I see a wilde civility.