John Ford

We can drink till all look blue.

Let them fear bondage who are slaves to fear; The sweetest freedom is an honest heart.

He is a noble gentleman; withal Happy in his endeavours: the general voice Sounds him for courtesy, behaviour, language, And every fair demeanour, an example: Titles of honour add not to his worth; Who is himself an honour to his title.

Why, I hold fate Clasped in my fist, and could command the course Of time's eternal motion, hadst thou been One thought more steady than an ebbing sea.

Busy opinion is an idle fool.

There is a place, List, daughter! in a black and hollow vault, Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, But flaming horror of consuming fires; A lightless sulphur, choked with smoky fogs Of an infected darkness; in this place

Delay in vengeance gives a heavier blow.

Brother, even by my mother's dust, I charge you, Do not betray me to your mirth or hate.

I have spent Many a silent night in sighs and groans, Ran over all my thoughts, despised my fate, Reasoned against the reasons of my love, Done all that smoothed-cheek Virtue could advise, But found all bootless: 'tis my destiny

Nice philosophy May tolerate unlikely arguments, But heaven admits no jest.

He hath shook hands with time.

Love is dead; let lovers' eyes Locked in endless dreams Th' extreme of all extremes Ope no more, for now Love dies.

Truth is child of time.

There's not a hair Sticks on my head but, like a leaden plummet, It sinks me to the grave: I must creep thither; The journey is not long.

Revenge proves its own executioner.

Glories Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams, And shadows soon decaying.

The joys of marriage are the heaven on earth, Life's paradise, great princess, the soul's quiet, Sinews of concord, earthly immortality, Eternity of pleasures; no restoratives Like to a constant woman!

Green indiscretion, flattery of greatness, Rawness of judgement, wilfulness in folly, Thoughts vagrant as the wind, and as uncertain.

I am, gay creature, With pardon of your deities, a mushroom On whom the dew of heaven drops now and then.

Tempt not the stars, young man, thou canst not play With the severity of fate.

Fly hence, shadows, that do keep, Watchful sorrows, charmed in sleep.

Love is the tyrant of the heart; it darkens Reason, confounds discretion; deaf to Counsel It runs a headlong course to desperate madness.

Philosophers dwell in the moon.

Melancholy Is not, as you conceive, indisposition Of body, but the mind's disease.