Reader, look / Not on his picture, but his book. |
She is Venus when she smiles; / But she's Juno when she walks, / And Minerva when she talks. |
Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears; / Yet slower yet, O faintly, gentle springs. |
Soul of the Age! / 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. |
Still to be neat, still to be drest, / As you were going to a feast. |
Success produces confidence; confidence relaxes industry, and negligence ruins the reputation which accuracy had raised. |
Such sweet neglect more taketh me, / Than all the adulteries of art; / They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. |
Sweet swan of Avon! |
Talking and eloquence are not the same: to speak, and to speak well, are two things. |
That for which all virtue now is sold, and almost every vice- almighty gold |
The covetous man never has money; the prodigal will have none shortly |
The fear of every man that heard him was, lest he should make an end. |
There was ever more in him to be praised than to be pardoned. |
There was ever more in him to be praised than to be pardoned. |
They say Princes learn no art truly, but the art of horsemanship. The reason is, the brave beast is no flatterer. He will throw a prince as soon as his groom. |