George Villiers (1628 – 1687)
English dramatist, poet, politician, wit and rake.
The world is made up, for the most part, of fools and knaves, both irreconcileable foes to truth.
Why, Sir, when I have anything to invent, I never trouble my head about it, as other men do; but presently turn over this Book, and there I have, at one view, all that Perseus, Montaigne, Seneca's Tragedies, Horace, Juvenal, Claudian, Pliny, Plutarch's lives, and the rest, have ever thought upon this subject: and so, in a trice, by leaving out a few words, or putting in others of my own, the business is done.
The world's a wood, in which all lose their way,
Though by a different path each goes astray.
I drink, I huff, I strut, look big and stare;
And all this I can do, because I dare.
We might well call this short Mock-play of ours
A Posie made of Weeds instead of Flowers;
Yet such have been presented to your noses,
And there are such, I fear, who thought 'em Roses.
Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well.
A mans fame and hayre grow most after death, and are both equally uselesse.
There are few have Dana's fortune, to have God and gold togather.
All these threatening storms, which, like impregnate Clouds, hover o'er our heads, will (when they once are grasp'd but by the eye of reason) melt into fruitful showers of blessings on the people.
She that would raise a noble love must find
Ways to beget a passion for her mind;
She must be that which she to the world would seem,
For all true love is grounded on esteem:
Plainness and truth gain more a generous heart
Than all the crooked subtleties of art.
What a Devil is the Plot good for, but to bring in fine things?
A Lady that was drown'd at Sea, and had a wave for her Winding sheet.
Buckingham was a sated man of pleasure, who had turned to ambition as a pastime. As he had tried to amuse himself with architecture and music, with writing farces and with seeking for the philosopher's stone, so he now tried to amuse himself with a secret negotiation and a Dutch war.
Ay, now the Plot thickens very much upon us.
Methinks, I see the wanton houres flee,
And as they passe, turne back and laugh at me.
O! what a prodigal have I been of that most valuable of all possessions — Time!
The first gentleman of person and wit I think I ever saw.
He had no principles of religion, virtue, or friendship. Pleasure, frolic, or extravagant diversion, was all that he laid to heart. He was true to nothing, for he was not true to himself.
Kisses are but like sands of gold and silver, found upon the ground which are not worth much themselves but as they promise a mine near too be dig'd.
The blackest Ink of Fate, sure, was my Lot,
And, when she writ my Name, she made a blot.