John Fletcher (1579 – 1625)
Jacobean playwright.
First come, first served.
Of all the paths lead to a woman's love
Pity's the straightest.
Let's meet and either do or die.
'Tis a word that's quickly spoken,
Which being restrained, a heart is broken.
Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet
But only melancholy;
O sweetest melancholy!
Thy clothes are all the soul thou hast.
From the crown of our head to the sole of our foot.
Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow
Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears!
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.
Though I say't that should not say't.
What mare's nest hast thou found?
Let them learn first to show pity at home.
All things that are
Made for our general uses are at war,—
Even we among ourselves.
'Twas when young Eustace wore his heart in's breeches.
Three merry boys, and three merry boys,
And three merry boys are we,
As ever did sing in a hempen string
Under the gallow-tree.
Man is his own star, and the soul that can
Render an honest and a perfect man
Commands all light, all influence, all fate.
Nothing to him falls early, or too late.
Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.
Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves.
Fortune, now see, now proudly
Pluck off thy veil, and view thy triumph; look,
Look what thou hast brought this land to!—