Quotes to inspire and reflect

For thirty pence he did my death devise, Who at three hundred did the ointment prize.

Be useful where thou livest.

Man is God’s image; but a poor man is Christ’s stamp to boot: both images regard.

Wit’s an unruly engine, wildly striking Sometimes a friend, sometimes the engineer.

By no means run in debt: take thine own measure. Who cannot live on twenty pound a year, Cannot on forty.

By all means use sometimes to be alone.

Dare to be true: nothing can need a lie: A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. 2

Drink not the third glass, which thou canst not tame When once it is within thee.

A verse may find him who a sermon flies. 1

Renowned Spenser, lie a thought more nigh To learned Chaucer; and rare Beaumont, lie A little nearer Spenser; to make room For Shakespeare in your threefold fourfold tomb.

What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, As if that everyone from whence they came, Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And resolv’d to live a fool, the rest Of his dull life.

Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out.

Vain the ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind. 2

Ferdinand: Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle; she died young. Bosola: I think not so; her infelicity

Heaven-gates are not so highly arch’d As princes’ palaces; they that enter there Must go upon their knees.

I am Duchess of Malfi still.

I know death hath ten thousand several doors For men to take their exits. 1

Prosperity doth bewitch men, seeming clear; But seas do laugh, show white, when rocks are near.

But keep the wolf far thence, that’s foe to men, For with his nails he’ll dig them up again.

Call for the robin redbreast and the wren, Since o’er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men.

All my joys to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy.

Those that merely talk and never think, That live in the wild anarchy of drink. 3

In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be.

Sweet Swan of Avon!

For a good poet’s made, as well as born.

He was not of an age but for all time.

Who casts to write a living line, must sweat.

And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek.

Call forth thundering Aeschylus.

The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare, rise; I will not lodge thee by Chaucer or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room; Thou art a monument, without a tomb, And art alive still, while thy book doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give.

Marlowe’s mighty line.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not wither’d be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent’st it back to me; Since when it grows and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee.

Reader, look, Not at his picture, but his book.

Whilst that for which all virtue now is sold, And almost every vice—almighty gold.

Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I’ll not look for wine. 2 The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove’s nectar sup, I would not change for thine.

Follow a shadow, it still flies you; Seem to fly it, it will pursue: So court a mistress, she denies you; Let her alone, she will court you.

Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die; Which in life did harbor give To more virtue than doth live.

Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry: For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much.

Nor shall our cups make any guilty men: But, at our parting, we will be, as when We innocently met.

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy! My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy.

Truth is the trial of itself And needs no other touch, And purer than the purest gold, Refine it ne’er so much.

Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free, Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art: They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

The dignity of truth is lost with much protesting.

Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast.

Come my Celia, let us prove, While we can, the sports of love; Time will not be ours forever, He at length our good will sever. Spend not then his gifts in vain; Suns that set may rise again, But if once we lose this light, ’Tis with us perpetual night.

Calumnies are answered best with silence.

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess, excellently bright.

Oh, I could still (Like melting snow upon some craggy hill) Drop, drop, drop, drop, Since nature’s pride is, now, a wither’d daffodil.