| C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917. | | | | John Ford |
| | | | He is a noble gentleman; withal |
| Happy in s endeavours: the genral voice |
| Sounds him for courtesy, behaviour, language, |
| And evry fair demeanour, an example: |
| Titles of honour add not to his worth; |
| Who is himself an honour to his title. |
| 1 |
| | Melancholy |
| Is not, as you conceive, indisposition |
| Of body, but the minds disease. |
| 2 |
| | Oh, happy kings, |
| Whose thrones are raised in their subjects hearts. |
| 3 |
| | Sister, look ye, |
| How, by a new creation of my tailors |
| Ive shook off old mortality. |
| 4 |
| | The joys of marriage are the heaven on earth, |
| Lifes paradise, great princess, the souls quiet, |
| Sinews of concord, earthly immortality, |
| Eternity of pleasures. |
| 5 |
| | There is a place in a black and hollow vault, |
| Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, |
| But flaming horror of consuming fires; |
| A lightless sulphur, chokd with smoky fogs |
| Of an infected darkness; in this place |
| Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts |
| Of never dying deaths; there damnd souls |
| Roar without pity; there are gluttons fed |
| With toads and adders; there is burning oil |
| Pourd down the drunkards throat; the usurer |
| Is forcd to sup whole draughts of molten gold; |
| There is the murderer forever stabbd, |
| Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton |
| On racks of burning steel, while in his soul |
| He feels the torment of his raging lust; |
| There stand those wretched things, |
| Who have dreamd out whole years in lawless sheets, |
| And secret incests, cursing one another. |
| 6 |
| Affections injured by tyranny, or rigor of compulsion, like tempest-threatened trees, unfirmly rooted, never spring to timely growth. | 7 |
| Delay in vengeance gives a heavier blow. | 8 |
| Diamonds cut diamonds. | 9 |
| Her words are trusty heralds to her mind. | 10 |
| Let them fear bondage who are slaves to fear; the sweetest freedom is an honest heart. | 11 |
| Physicians are the cobblers, rather the botchers, of mens bodies; as the one patches our tattered clothes, so the other solders our diseased flesh. | 12 |
| Titles of honor add not to his worth, who is himself an honor to his title. | 13 | | |
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