John Lyly Quotes - Page 2

As the best wine doth make the sharpest vinegar, so the deepest love turns to the deadliest hate.

The greatest harm that you can do unto the envious, is to do well.

I thank you for nothing, because I understand nothing.

It is the eye of the master that fatteth the horse, and the love of the woman that maketh the man.

The finest edge is made with the blunt whetstone.

He that loseth his honesty hath nothing else to lose.

As love knoweth no lawes, so it regardeth no conditions

Whilst that the childe is young, let him be instructed in vertue and lytterature.

Love knoweth no laws.

Children and fooles speake true.

The measure of love is to have no mean, the end to be everlasting.

It is good walking when one hath his horse in hand.

None but the lark so shrill and clear; Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings, The morn not waking till she sings.

Many strokes overthrow the tallest oaks.

If all the earth were paper white / And all the sea were ink / 'Twere not enough for me to write / As my poor heart doth think.

The slothful are always ready to engage in idle talk of what will be done tomorrow, and every day after.

Instruments sound sweetest when they are touched softest.

If love be a god, why should not lovers be virtuous?

When parents put gold into the hands of youth, when they should put a rod under their girdle--when instead of awe they make them past grace, and leave them rich executors of goods, and poor executors of godliness, then it is no marvel that the son being left rich by his father's will, becomes reckless by his own will.

The rattling thunderbolt hath but his clap, the lightning but his flash, and as they both come in a moment, so do they both end in a minute.

A new broome sweepeth cleane.

Lips are no part of the head, only made for a double-leaf door for the mouth.

Cupid and my Campaspe play'd At cards for kisses - Cupid paid: He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lips, the rose Growing one's cheek (but none knows how); With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin: All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes - She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this for thee? What shall, alas! become of me?

Maydens, be they never so foolyshe, yet beeing fayre they are commonly fortunate.

Be valyaunt, but not too venturous. Let thy attyre bee comely, but not costly.