Humor e Ironia

Much malice mingled with a little wit.

The rest to some faint meaning make pretense, But Shadwell 5 never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through and make a lucid interval; But Shadwell’s genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day.

Made still a blund’ring kind of melody; Spurr’d boldly on, and dash’d through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in. Free from all meaning, whether good or bad, And in one word, heroically mad.

Who think too little, and who talk too much.

He that is down, needs fear no fall, He that is low, no pride.

Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter, holding both his sides. Come, and trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe.

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

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.

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.

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

I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so In whining poetry.

Pillicock sat on Pillicock-hill: Halloo, halloo, loo, loo!

Egregiously an ass.

Iago: To suckle fools and chronicle small beer. Desdemona: O most lame and impotent conclusion!

You are pictures out of doors, Bells in your parlors, wildcats in your kitchens, Saints in your injuries, devils being offended, Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds.

This fellow’s wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well craves a kind of wit.

You do as chapmen do, Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy.

A king of shreds and patches.

To put an antic disposition on.

The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

Motley’s the only wear.

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, That fools should be so deep-contemplative, And I did laugh sans intermission An hour by his dial.

I met a fool i’ the forest, A motley fool.

We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside, As many other mannish cowards have.