'Tis gold Which makes the true man kill'd, and saves the thief; Nay, sometime, hangs both thief and true man. Though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor To lapse in fulness Is sorer, than to lie for need; and falsehood The sweat of industry would dry and die But for the end it works to. Triumphs for nothing, and lamenting toys, Though mean and mighty, rotting Together, have one dust, yet reverence (That angel of the world), doth make distinction Of place 'tween high and low. Thersites' body is as good as Ajax, Thanks to men Of noble minds is honourable meed. The raven doth not hatch a lark. 'Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss. Tyrants' fears Decrease not, but grow faster than the years. Time's the king of men; He's both their parent, and he is their grave, And gives them what he will, not what they crave. Truth can never be confirm'd enough, Though doubts did ever sleep. To plainness honour's bound, When majesty stoops to folly. Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides ; Truth's a dog must to kennel; he must be whipped out, when Lady, the brach, may stand by the fire and stink. That, sir, which serves and seeks for gain, Will pack when it begins to rain, To wilful men, The injuries that they themselves procure There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass. The art of our necessities is strange Ja That can make vile things precious. The worst is not So long as we can say, "This is the worst." Mar The mind much sufferance doth o'erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship. 'Tis the times' plague when madmen lead the blind. Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear; The best quarrels, in the heat, are curs'd By those that feel their sharpness. The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices The weakest goes to the wall. Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning. That book in many's eyes doth share the glory, Two may keep counsel, putting one away. The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness, Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. They are but beggars that can count their worth. 'Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers. There are more things in heaven and earth To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand. There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. The great man down, you mark his favourite flies; To know a man well were to know himself. " |