George Chapman Quotes
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Black is a pearl in a woman's eye.
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'Tis immortality to die aspiring,As if a man were taken quick to heaven.
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Man is a name of honour for a king.
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Danger (the spur of all great minds) is everThe curb to your tame spirits.
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Give me a spirit that on this life's rough seaLoves t' have his sails fill'd with a lusty wind,Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack,And his rapt ship run on her side so lowThat she drinks water, and her keel plows air.
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Fortune, the great commandress of the world,Hath divers ways to advance her followers:To some she gives honour without deserving,To other some, deserving without honour.
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For your behaviour, let it be free and negligent, not clogged with ceremony or observance; give no man honour, but upon equal terms; for look how much thou giv'st any man above that, so much thou tak'st from thyself.
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An ill weed grows apace.
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Achilles' baneful wrath resound, O Goddess, that imposedInfinite sorrows on the Greeks, and many brave souls loosedFrom breasts heroic, sent them far to that invisible caveThat no light comforts, and their limbs to dogs and vultures gave;To all which Jove's will gave effect; from whom first strife begunBetwixt Atrides, king of men, and Thetis' godlike son.
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Let no man value at a little priceA virtuous woman's counsel; her wing'd spiritIs feather'd oftentimes with heavenly words.
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I tell thee Love is Nature's second sun,Causing a spring of virtues where he shines.
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So our livesIn acts exemplary, not only winOurselves good names, but doth to others giveMatter for virtuous deeds, by which we live.
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Exceeding fair she was not; and yet fairIn that she never studied to be fairerThan Nature made her; beauty cost her nothing,Her virtues were so rare.
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Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee. Light gains make heavy purses. 'Tis good to be merry and wise.
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His deeds inimitable, like the seaThat shuts still as it opes, and leaves no tractsNor prints of precedent for poor men's facts.
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The lady of the light, the rosy-fingered Morn,Rose from the hills.
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Great goddess, to whose throne in Cynthian fires,This earthly altar endless fumes expires;Therefore, in fumes of sighs and fires of grief,To fearful chances thou send'st bold relief,Happy, thrice happy type, and nurse of death,Who, breathless, feeds on nothing but our breath,In whom must virtue and her issue live,Or die for ever.
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I will neither yield to the song of the siren nor the voice of the hyena, the tears of the crocodile nor the howling of the wolf.
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Promise is most given when the least is said.
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Music, and mood, she loves, but love she hates(As curious ladies do, their public cates),This train, with meteors, comets, lightenings,The dreadful presence of our empress sings:Which grant for ever (O eternal Night)Till virtue flourish in the light of light.
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Use makes things nothing huge, and huge things nothing.
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None ever loved but at first sight they loved.
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Then forth he came, his both knees falt'ring, bothHis strong hands hanging down, and all with frothHis cheeks and nostrils flowing, voice and breathSpent to all use, and down he sunk to death.The sea had soaked his heart through; all his veinsHis toils had rack'd t'a labouring woman's pains.Dead weary was he.
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As far as white Aurora's dews are sprinkled through the air.