C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.

Middleton

A wise man likes that best, that is itself;

Not that which only seems, though it look fairer.

For he

That sows in craft does reap in jealousy.

How near am I to happiness

That earth exceeds not? not another like it.

The treasures of the deep are not so precious,

As are the concealed comforts of a man

Lock’d up in woman’s love. I scent the air

Of blessings, when I come but near the house;

What a delicious breath marriage sends forth.

The violet-bed’s not sweeter. Honest wedlock

Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden,

On which the spring’s chaste flowers take delight

To cast their modest odors.

In the election of a wife, as in

A project of war, to err but once is

To be undone forever.

Lands mortgaged may return, and more esteem’d,

But honesty once pawn’d, is ne’er redeem’d.

Love is all in fire, and yet is ever freezing;

Love is much in winning, yet is more in leesing;

Love is ever sick, and yet is never dying;

Love is ever true, and yet is ever lying;

Love does dote in liking, and is mad in loathing;

Love indeed is anything, yet indeed is nothing.

’Mongst all your virtues

I see not charity written, which some call

The first born of religion; and I wonder,

I cannot see it in yours. Believe it, sir,

There is no virtue can be sooner miss’d

Or later welcom’d; it begins the rest,

And sets them all in order.

Rivers from bubbling springs

Have rise at first; and great, from abject things.

This is the fruit of craft:

Like him that shoots up high, looks for the shaft,

And finds it in his forehead.

When men’s intents are wicked, their guilt haunts them,

But when they are just they’re arm’d, and nothing daunts them.

A mad world, my masters.

Beware ambition; heaven is not reached with pride, but with submission.

Ground not upon dreams, you know they are ever contrary.

Have you summoned your wits from wool-gathering?

Hold their noses to the grindstone.

On his last legs.

Shame sticks ever close to the ribs of honor.

The treasures of the deep are not so precious as are the concealed comforts of a man locked up in woman’s love.

There is no virtue can be sooner missed or later welcomed; it begins the rest, and sets them all in order.

This is the fruit of craft; like him that shoots up high, looks for the shaft, and finds it in his forehead.

Virtue itself often offends when coupled with bad manners.

Who loves law, dies either mad or poor.

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