Francis Beaumont Quotes

The fool that willingly provokes a woman, has made himself another evil angel and a new hell to which all other torments are but mere pastime...

Interest makes some people blind and others quick-sighted.

The hand of Heaven is on me, be it far from me to struggle, if my secret sins have pull'd this curse upon me, lend me tears now to wash me white, that I may feel a child-like innocence within my breast; which once perform'd, O give me leave to stand as fix'd as constancy her self, my eyes set here unmov'd, regardless of the world though thousand miseries incompass me.

Bellario. Sir, you did take me up When I was nothing; and only yet am something By being yours. You trusted me unknown; And that which you were apt to conster A simple innocence in me, perhaps Might have been craft, the cunning of a boy Hardened in lies and theft: yet ventured you To part my miseries and me; for which, I never can expect to serve a lady That bears more honour in her breast than you.

My hard fortunes Deserve not scorn; for I was never proud When they were good.

The Safest Place It’s a hygienic lovers’ tiff That starts with if and only if And tails off like a doctor’s note. How could you write the things you wrote, Scaremongering? I’m sure we’ll live. Thank God my job’s repetitive. It keeps me calm – no hurt, no games. I type a list of authors’ names, Relish the thought of getting bored. I’m busy here. I can’t afford To fall apart or fall behind. Everywhere else you’re on my mind; Work has become the safest place. This catalogue, this database, Proves, in a way, that life goes on. Beaumont, Francis. Fletcher, John.

The Knight of the Burning Pestle was first performed in 1607 before it was published in quarto form in 1613. The play is credited to Francis Beaumont, before he began his highly successful partnership with John Fletcher.

his death in 1616, the literary world was silent. Though it was an age of effusive eulogies, there were no tributes at his passing, no mourning of his death in poems or letters. When the playwright Francis Beaumont died just seven weeks earlier, he was honored for his service to the nation with a resting place among the poets at Westminster Abbey. When the playwright Ben Jonson died in 1637, his funeral was attended by “all or the greatest part of the nobility then in town.” But when Shakespeare died—crickets.