Francis Beaumont

c. 1584

English Playwright, Poet

Author Quotes

Envy, like the worm, never runs but to the fairest fruit; like a cunning bloodhound, it singles out the fattest deer in the flock.

The greatest attribute of Heaven is mercy.

Grace comes often clad in the dusky robe of desolation.

The true way to gain much, is never to desire to gain too much.

Honor's a thing too subtle for wisdom; if honor lie in eating, he's right honorable.

There is a method in man's wickedness; it grows up by degrees.

Kiss till the cow comes home.

There's nothing that allays an angry mind So soon as a sweet beauty.

Let no man fear to die, we love to sleep all, and death is but the sounder sleep.

Those have most power to hurt us, that we love.

Mortality, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones sleep within this heap of stones: here they lie, had realms and lands, who now want strength to stir their hands

What things have we seen done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been so nimble and so full of subtile flame as if that everyone from whence they came had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, and resolved to live a fool the rest of his dull life.

My hard fortunes deserve not scorn; for I was never proud when they were good.

You are no better than you should be.

My virginity, that from my childhood kept me company, is heavier than I can endure to bear. Forgive me, Cupid, for thou art god, and I a wretched creature: I have sinn'd; but be thou merciful, and grant that yet I may enjoy what thou wilt have me love!

Nose, nose, jolly red nose, and who gave thee that jolly red nose? Nutmegs and ginger, cinnamon and cloves; and they gave me this jolly red nose.

Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

Of all the paths [that] lead to a woman's love Pity's the straightest.

Oh, love will make a dog howl in rhyme.

Bad's the best of us.

Our lives are but our marches to the grave.

Bellario. Sir, you did take me up when I was nothing; and only yet am something by being yours. You trusted me unknown; and that which you were apt to conster a simple innocence in me, perhaps might have been craft, the cunning of a boy hardened in lies and theft: yet ventured you to part my miseries and me; for which, I never can expect to serve a lady that bears more honor in her breast than you.

Plot me no plots.

But what is past my help is past my care.

She's private to herself and best of knowledge whom she'll make so happy as to sigh for.

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c. 1584
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English Playwright, Poet