John Fletcher (1579 – 1625)
Jacobean playwright.
Charity and treating begin at home.
O great corrector of enormous times,
Shaker of o'er-rank states, thou grand decider
Of dusty and old titles, that healest with blood
The earth when it is sick, and curest the world
O' the pleurisy of people.
We must all die!
All leave ourselves, it matters not where, when,
Nor how, so we die well; and can that man that does so
Need lamentation for him?
One good turn deserves another.
I'll put that in my considering cap.
This is a gimcrack
That can get nothing but new fashions on you.
Speak boldly, and speak truly, shame the devil.
This is a pretty flimflam.
Three merry boys, and three merry boys,
And three merry boys are we.
As ever did sing in a hempen string
Under the gallows tree.
As high as Heaven, as deep as Hell.
Oh, woman, perfect woman! what distraction
Was meant to mankind when thou wast made a devil!
What an inviting hell invented.
Come, sing now, sing; for I know you sing well;
I see you have a singing face.
That place that does contain
My books, the best companions, is to me
A glorious court, where hourly I converse
With the old sages and philosophers;
And sometimes, for variety, I confer
With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels.
Corruption is a tree, whose branches are
Of an immeasurable length: they spread
Ev'rywhere; and the dew that drops from thence
Hath infected some chairs and stools of authority.
Lie lightly on my ashes, gentle earthe.
I'll put a spoke among your wheels.
Look babies in your eyes, my pretty sweet one.
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that's gone;
Violets plucked, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again.