Thomas Dekker

QUEEN: But Hymen's torch, held downward, shall drop out, And for it, the mad Furies swing their brands About the bride-chamber.

BALTHAZAR: Sin is a raven croaking her own fall.

BALTHAZAR: Subjects may stumble, when kings walk astray. Thine acts shall be a new Apocrypha.

BALTHAZAR: I have a private coat for Italian stilettos, I can be treacherous with the Walloon, drunk with the Dutch, a chimney-sweeper with the Irish, a gentleman with the Welsh and true arrant thief with the English. What then is my …

KING: I am full of thoughts, A thousand wheels toss my incertain fears, There is a storm in my hot boiling brains, Which rises without wind. A horrid one.

ALANZO: Wrongs, like great whirlwinds, Shake highest battlements. Few for heaven would care, Should they be ever happy.

ONAELIA: What sort of poets are there? POET: Two sorts lady: The great poets and the small poets. ONAELIA: Great and small! Which do you call the great? The fat ones?

ONAELIA: You are like common beadles, apt to lash Almost to death poor wretches not worth striking, But fawn with slavish flattery on damned vices So great men act them. You clap hands at those, Where the true poet indeed doth scorn to …

ONAELIA: One step to human bliss is sweet revenge.

We are ne’er like angels till our passion dies.

This principle is old, but true as fate,— Kings may love treason, but the traitor hate.

I was ne’er so thrummed since I was a gentleman.

The best of men That e’er wore earth about him was a sufferer; A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, The first true gentleman that ever breathed.

Honest labour bears a lovely face.

To add to golden numbers golden numbers.

And though mine arm should conquer twenty worlds, There ’s a lean fellow beats all conquerors.

A wise man poor Is like a sacred book that’s never read,— To himself he lives, and to all else seems dead. This age thinks better of a gilded fool Than of a threadbare saint in wisdom’s school.