George Chapman (c. 1559 – May 12, 1634) was an English dramatist, translator and poet.
Born: 1559
Died: May 12th, 1634
Categories: English poets, English playwrights, 17th century deaths
Quotes: 39 sourced quotes total (includes 1 disputed)
| Meta data | Average | Range |
|---|---|---|
| Words (count) | 20 | 4 - 81 |
| Search Results | 24 | 10 - 120 |
Young men think old men are fools; but old men know young men are fools.
Obscuritie in affection of words, & indigested concets, is pedanticall and childish...
Enough 's as good as a feast.
Words writ in waters.
Make ducks and drakes with shillings.
Let pride go afore, shame will follow after.
Promise is most given when the least is said.
Who to himself is law no law doth need, Offends no law, and is a king indeed.
None ever loved but at first sight they loved.
They 're only truly great who are truly good.
I am ashamed the law is such an ass.
An ill weed grows apace.
To put a girdle round about the world.
Virtue is not malicious; wrong done her Is righted even when men grant they err.
For one heat, all know, doth drive out another, One passion doth expel another still.
Each natural agent works but to this end,— To render that it works on like itself.
Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee. Light gains make heavy purses. 'Tis good to be merry and wise.
Exceeding fair she was not; and yet fair In that she never studied to be fairer Than Nature made her; beauty cost her nothing, Her virtues were so rare.
And for the authentical truth of either person or actions, who (worth the respecting) will expect it in a poem, whose subject is not truth, but things like truth? Poor envious souls they are that cavil at truth's want in these natural fictions; material instruction, elegant and sententious excitation to virtue, and deflection from her contrary, being the soul, limbs, and limits of an authentical tragedy.
Only a few industrious Scots perhaps, who indeed are dispersed over the face of the whole earth. But as for them, there are no greater friends to Englishmen and England, when they are out on 't, in the world, than they are. And for my own part, I would a hundred thousand of them were there [Virginia]; for we are all one countrymen now, ye know, and we should find ten times more comfort of them there than we do here.
Fair words never hurt the tongue.
Black is a pearl in a woman's eye.
As night the life-inclining stars best shows, So lives obscure the starriest souls disclose.
Danger (the spur of all great minds) is ever The curb to your tame spirits.
'T is immortality to die aspiring, As if a man were taken quick to heaven.
This was a sleight well mask'd. O, what is man, Unless he be a Politician?
I tell thee Love is Nature's second sun, Causing a spring of virtues where he shines.
Cornelia. What flowers are these? Gazetta. The pansy this. Cor. Oh, that 's for lovers' thoughts.
He is at no end of his actions blest Whose ends will make him greatest, and not best.
Poetry, unlike oratory, should not aim at clarity... but be dense with meaning, 'something to be chewed and digested'...
Man is a torch borne in the wind; a dream But of a shadow, summ'd with all his substance.
Let no man value at a little price A virtuous woman's counsel; her wing'd spirit Is feather'd oftentimes with heavenly words.
His deeds inimitable, like the sea That shuts still as it opes, and leaves no tracts Nor prints of precedent for poor men's facts.
So our lives In acts exemplary, not only win Ourselves good names, but doth to others give Matter for virtuous deeds, by which we live.
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.
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.
Musicke, and moode, she loues, but loue she hates, (As curious Ladies do, their publique cates) This traine, with meteors, comets, lightenings, The dreadfull presence of our Empresse sings: Which grant for euer (ô eternall Night) Till vertue flourish in the light of light.
Give me a spirit that on this life's rough sea Loves 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 low That she drinks water, and her keel plows air.
Great Goddesse to whose throne in Cynthian fires, This earthlie Alter endlesse fumes expires, Therefore, in fumes of sighes and fires of griefe, To fearefull chances thou sendst bold reliefe, Happie, thrise happie, Type, and nurse of death, Who breathlesse, feedes on nothing but our breath, In whom must vertue and her issue liue, Or dye for euer.