John Lyly (1553 – 1606)
English writer, best known for his Euphues (1579).
It seems to me (said she) that you are in some brown study.
Is it not true which Seneca reporteth, that as too much bending breaketh the bowe, so too much remission spoyleth the minde?
Rather fast then surfette, rather starue then striue to exceede.
Though the Camomill, the more it is trodden and pressed downe the more it spreadeth.
Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses—Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lips, the rose
Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes—
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this for thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?
There can no great smoke arise, but there must be some fire.
Goe to bed with the Lambe, and rise with the Larke.
That honourable estate of Matrimony, which was sanctified in Paradise, allowed of the Patriarches, hallowed of the olde Prophets, and commended of al persons.
Your eyes are so sharpe that you cannot onely looke through a Milstone, but cleane through the minde.
A clere conscience is a sure carde.
Maydens, be they never so foolyshe, yet beeing fayre they are commonly fortunate.
He reckoneth without his Hostesse. Love knoweth no lawes.
Lette me stande to the maine chance.
How at heaven's gates she claps her wings,
The morne not waking til she sings.
I mean not to run with the Hare and holde with the Hounde.
I am glad that my Adonis hath a sweete tooth in his head.
The soft droppes of rain perce the hard marble; many strokes overthrow the tallest oaks.
Where the streame runneth smoothest, the water is deepest.
A Rose is sweeter in the budde than full blowne.