John Ford (dramatist) Quotes

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About John Ford (dramatist)

John Ford (1586 – c. 1640) was one of the last English playwrights in the great Jacobean school that produced Marlowe, William Shakespeare and Jonson.

Born: 1586

Died: 1640

Categories: English playwrights, 17th century deaths

Quotes: 33 sourced quotes total

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Revenge proves its own executioner.
Nice philosophy May tolerate unlikely arguments, But heaven admits no jest.
We can drink till all look blue.
Physicians are the cobblers, rather the botchers, of men's bodies; as the one patches our tattered clothes, so the other solders our diseased flesh.
The joys of marriage are the heaven on earth, Life's paradise, great princess, the soul's quiet, Sinews of concord, earthly immortality, Eternity of pleasures; no restoratives Like to a constant woman!
He is a noble gentleman; withal Happy in his endeavours: the general voice Sounds him for courtesy, behaviour, language, And every fair demeanour, an example: Titles of honour add not to his worth; Who is himself an honour to his title.
There is a place, List, daughter! in a black and hollow vault, Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, But flaming horror of consuming fires; A lightless sulphur, choked with smoky fogs Of an infected darkness; in this place Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts Of never-dying deaths.
Philosophers dwell in the moon.
Truth is child of time.
He hath shook hands with time.
Busy opinion is an idle fool.
Flattery Is monstrous in a true friend.
Delay in vengeance gives a heavier blow.
Her words are trusty heralds to her mind.
Ford is rather a sculptor of character than a painter.
Oh, happy kings, Whose thrones are raised in their subjects' hearts.
Fly hence, shadows, that do keep, Watchful sorrows, charmed in sleep.
Glories Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams, And shadows soon decaying.
Melancholy Is not, as you conceive, indisposition Of body, but the mind's disease.
Tell us, pray, what devil This melancholy is, which can transform Men into monsters.
Tempt not the stars, young man, thou canst not play With the severity of fate.
Sister, look ye, How, by a new creation of my tailor's I've shook off old mortality.
Let them fear bondage who are slaves to fear; The sweetest freedom is an honest heart.
Brother, even by my mother's dust, I charge you, Do not betray me to your mirth or hate.
Green indiscretion, flattery of greatness, Rawness of judgement, wilfulness in folly, Thoughts vagrant as the wind, and as uncertain.
I am, gay creature, With pardon of your deities, a mushroom On whom the dew of heaven drops now and then.
Love is dead; let lovers' eyes Locked in endless dreams Th' extreme of all extremes Ope no more, for now Love dies.
Love is the tyrant of the heart; it darkens Reason, confounds discretion; deaf to Counsel It runs a headlong course to desperate madness.
A bachelor May thrive by observation, on a little. A single life's no burden: but to draw In yokes is chargeable, and will require A double maintenance.
There's not a hair Sticks on my head but, like a leaden plummet, It sinks me to the grave: I must creep thither; The journey is not long.
Why, I hold fate Clasped in my fist, and could command the course Of time's eternal motion, hadst thou been One thought more steady than an ebbing sea.
Ford was of the first order of poets. He sought for sublimity, not by parcels in metaphors or visible images, but directly where she has her full residence in the heart of man; in the actions and sufferings of the greatest minds.
I have spent Many a silent night in sighs and groans, Ran over all my thoughts, despised my fate, Reasoned against the reasons of my love, Done all that smoothed-cheek Virtue could advise, But found all bootless: 'tis my destiny That you must either love, or I must die.

End John Ford (dramatist) Quotes