Samuel Daniel Quotes

The stars that have most glory have no rest.

The greatest works of admiration, And all the fair examples of renown. Out of distress and misery are grown.

Love is a sickness full of woes, all remedies refusing.

Custom, that is before all law; Nature, that is above all art.

Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon tender green, Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show And straight is gone, as it had never been.

Flattery, the dangerous nurse of vice.

When better cherries are not to be had, We needs must take the seeming best of bad.

This many-headed monster, Multitude.

Thus doth the ever-changing course of things Run a perpetual circle, ever turning; And that same day, that highest glory brings, Brings us unto the point of back-returning.

Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using.

The wise are above books.

The absent danger greater still appears less fears he who is near the thing he fears.

We come to know best what men are, in their worse jeopardizes.

This is that rest this vain world lends, To end in death that all things ends.

Th aspirer, once attaind unto the top, Cuts off those means by which himself got up.

Pow'r above pow'rs! O heavenly eloquence! That with the strong rein of commanding words, Dost manage, guide, and master th' eminence Of men's affections, more than all their swords!

Man is a Creature of a wilful Head, And hardly driven is, but eas'ly led.

Sacred religion! mother of form and fear.

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born; Relive my languish, and restore the light.

Striving to tell his woes, words would not come; For light cares speak, when mighty griefs are dumb.

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, Relieve my languish and restore the light; With dark forgetting of my care return. And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill adventured youth: Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn Without the torment of the night's untruth.

But years hath done this wrong, To make me write too much, and live too long.

And who in time knows whither we may vent the treasure of our tongue, to what strange shores this gain of our best glories shall be sent, 't unknowing Nations with our stores? What worlds in the yet unformed Occident may come refined with the accents that are ours?

And for the few that only lend their ear, That few is all the world.

So false is faction, and so smooth a liar, As that it never had a side entire.