Thomas Nashe Quotes

Thomas Nashe presents grand, contemplative verses on mortality, destiny, and the fleeting nature of fame.

28 quotes

Evermore mayst thou be canonized as the Nonparreille of impious epistlers.

#1
The Sun shineth as well on the good as the bad: God from on high beholdeth all the workers of iniquity, as well as the upright of heart.

#2
Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant King, Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu wee, to witta woo!

#3
Blest is that government where no art thrives.

#4
Beauty is but a flower Which wrinkles will devour.

#5
Brightness falls from the air, Queens have died young and fair, Dust hath closed Helen's eye. I am sick, I must die: Lord, have mercy on us.

#6
From winter, plague, & pestilence, good Lord, deliver us.

#7
Many will it claim. It makes your life disdain.

#8
Our learning ought to be our lives' amendment, and the fruits of our private study ought to appear in our public behavior.

#9
Works by Thomas Nashe at Project Gutenberg

#10
Thomas Nash's work

#11
Fair summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore: So fair a summer look for never more. All good things vanish, less than in a day, Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay. Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year; The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.
Beauty is but a flower Which wrinkles will devour; Brightness falls from the air; Queens have died young and fair; Dust hath closed Helen's eye.
Poetry is the honey of all flowers, the quintessence of all sciences, the marrow of wit, and the very phrase of angels.
Immortal Spenser, no frailty hath thy fame but the imputation of this idiot's friendship!
New herrings, new!' we must cry, every time we make ourselves public, or else we shall be christened with a hundred new titles of idiotism.
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing- Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay- Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every street these tunes our ears do greet- Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! Spring, the sweet Spring!
A traveller must have the back of an ass to bear all, a tongue like the tail of a dog to flatter all, the mouth of a hog to eat what is set before him, the ear of a merchant to hear all and say nothing.
Shape your coat according to your cloth.
“There is not a room in anie mans house, but is pestred and close packed with a camp royeale of divels.”
“Grosse plodders they were all, that had some learning and reading, but no wit to make use of it.”
Beauty is but a flower which wrinkles will devour; Brightness falls from the air
“Destiny never defames herself but when she lets an excellent poet die.”
“What is Logicke but the highe waie to wrangling, contayning in it a world of bibble babble. Need we anie of your Greek, Latine, Hebrue, or anie such gibbrage, when we have the word of God in English?”
“I'll be your daily Orator to pray that that pure sanguine complexion of yours may never be famished with pot-lucke, that you may taste till your last gasp, and live to see the confusion of both your special enemies, Small Beer and Grammar rules.”
“[N]othing is more odious to the auditor, than the artless tongue of a tedious dolt, which dulls the delight of hearing, and slacketh the desire of remembering.”
“Incomprehensible is the height of your spirit both in heroical resolution and matters of conceit. Unreprievably perishes that book whatsoever to wastepaper, which on the diamond rock of your judgement disasterly chances to be shipwrecked. A dear lover and cherisher you are, as well of the lovers of Poets, as of Poets themselves. Amongst their sacred number I dare not ascribe myself, though now and then I speak English: that small brain I have to no further use I convert, save to be kind to my friends and fatal to my enemies. A new brain, a new wit, a new style, a new soul will I get me, to canonize your name to posterity, if in this my first attempt I be not taxed of presumption.”
“Had I a ropemaker to my father, and someone had cast it in my teeth, I would forthwith have written in praise of ropemakers, and proved it by sound sillogistry to be one of the seven liberal sciences.”