Thomas Kyd

For what's a play without a woman in it?

Dost thou think to live till his old doublet will make thee a new truss?

Thus must we toil in other men's extremes, That know not how to remedy our own.

Oh eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears; Oh life, no life, but lively form of death; Oh world, no world, but mass of public wrongs, Confused and filled with murder and misdeeds.

What outcries pluck me from my naked bed And chill my throbbing heart with trembling fear.

Where words prevail not, violence prevails; But gold doth more than either of them both.

In time the savage bull sustains the yoke, In time all haggard hawks will stoop to lure, In time small wedges cleave the hardest oak, In time the flint is pierced with softest shower.