Robert Greene

Set a beggar on horseback, and they say he will never light.

Away he flew, for why? his wings were dry; But left the arrow sticking in my breast, That sore I grieved I welcomed such a guest.

His shaft procur'd a sharp, yet sugar'd smart.

To dry his plumes: I heard the boy complain; I op'd the door, and granted his desire, I rose myself, and made the wag a fire.

Cupid abroad was lated in the night, His wings were wet with ranging in the rain.

Tread on a worm and it will turn.

There is an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers, that with his tiger's heart wrapped in a player's hide supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you: and being an absolute Johannes Factotum, is in his …

Deceiving world, that with alluring toys Hast made my life the subject of thy scorn, And scornest now to lend thy fading joys, T'outlength my life, whom friends have left forlorn; How well are they that die ere they be born, And never see …

So soon kills not the basilisk with sight, The viper's tooth is not so venomous, The adder's tongue not half so dangerous, As they that bear the shadow of delight, Who chain blind youths in trammels of their hair, Till waste brings woe, …

I had as lief have their room as their company.

Obscurèd life sets down a type of bliss: A mind content both crown and kingdom is.

Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content; The quiet mind is richer than a crown; Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent; The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown: Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, …

He that will not when he may, When he desires shall surely purchase nay.

A noble mind disdains to hide his head, And let his foes triumph in his overthrow.

In vain it is to strive against the stream.

And in a sable mantle of disgrace Sat he that is y-clepèd heaven's bright eye.

Sweet Adon, dar'st not glance thine eye— N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?— Upon thy Venus that must die? Je vous en prie, pity me; N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

For kings have often fears when they do sup, Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup.

Ah! what is love? It is a pretty thing, As sweet unto a shepherd as a king; And sweeter too, For kings have cares that wait upon a crown, And cares can make the sweetest love to frown; Ah then, ah then,

Time is...Time was...Time is past.

The more the fox is curst, the better he fares.

Hangs in th' uncertain balance of proud time.

The swain did woo; she was nice, Following fashion, nay'd him twice.

Her maiden mount, the dwelling-house of Pleasure; Not like, for why no like surpasseth wonder: O, blest is he may bring such beauties under, Or search by suit the secrets of that treasure!