67 quotes
Heaven bless thee!
Thou hast the sweetest face I ever looked on;
Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel.
Henry VIII (1613)
O! good my lord, no Latin;
I'm not such a truant since my coming,
As not to know the language I have liv'd in.
Henry VIII (1613)
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have.
Henry VIII (1613)
Go with me, like good angels, to my end;
And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me,
Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice,
And lift my soul to heaven.
Henry VIII (1613)
The choir,
With all the choicest music of the kingdom,
Together sung Te Deum.
Henry VIII (1613)
And Nature does require
Her times of preservation, which perforce
I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal,
Must give my tendance to.
Henry VIII (1613)
These should be hours for necessities,
Not for delights; times to repair our nature
With comforting repose, and not for us
To waste these times.
Henry VIII (1613)
That comfort comes too late;
'Tis like a pardon after execution;
That gentle physic, given in time, had cur'd me;
But now I am past all comforts here, but Prayers.
Henry VIII (1613)
Everything that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads, and then lay by;
In sweet music is such art:
Killing care and grief of heart
Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.
Henry VIII (1613)
I have touched the highest point of all my greatness:
And, from that full meridian of my glory,
I haste now to my setting.
Henry VIII (1613)
My prayers
Are not words duly hallow'd nor my wishes
More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes
Are all I can return.
Henry VIII (1613)
Be advis'd;
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot
That it do singe yourself: we may outrun,
By violent swiftness, that which we run at,
And lose by over-running.
Henry VIII (1613)
Therefore I say again,
I utterly abhor, yea from my soul
Refuse you for my judge; whom, yet once more,
I hold my most malicious foe, and think not
At all a mend to truth.
Henry VIII (1613)
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition.
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by it?
Henry VIII (1613)
O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars and women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
Henry VIII (1613)
I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Henry VIII (1613)
If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me;
I had it from my father.
Henry VIII (1613)
I am about to weep; but, thinking that
We are a queen, or long have dream'd so, certain
The daughter of a king, my drops of tears
I'll turn to sparks of fire.
Henry VIII (1613)
What we oft do best,
By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is
Not ours, or not allow'd; what worst, as oft,
Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up
For our best act.
Henry VIII (1613)
He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;
Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading;
Lofty and sour to them that lov'd him not;
But to those men that sought him sweet as summer.
Henry VIII (1613)