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The empty vessel giveth a greater sound than the full barrel.

John Lyly

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John Lyly
Died: 1606
Died: November 18
Novelist
Playwright
Politician
Writer
Kent
England
John Lilly
John Lylie
John Lyly
Sound
Barrel
Barrels
Conceit
Vessel
Empty
Ignorance
Full
Greater
Giveth

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As the best wine doth make the sharpest vinegar, so the deepest love turns to the deadliest hate.
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If you will be cherished when you are old, be courteous while you be young.
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Long quaffing maketh a short lyfe.
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In arguing of the shadow, we forgo the substance.
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[Beauty is] a delicate bait with a deadly hook a sweet panther with a devouring paunch, a sour poison in a silver pot.
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When adversities flow, then love ebbs but friendship standeth stiffly in storms.
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Time draweth wrinkles in a fair face, but addeth fresh colors to a fast friend, which neither heat, nor cold, nor misery, nor place, nor destiny, can alter or diminish
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He that loseth his honesty hath nothing else to lose.
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There can no great smoke arise, but there must be some fire.
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A heat full of coldness, a sweet full of bitterness, a pain full of pleasantness, which maketh thoughts have eyes and hearts ears, bred by desire, nursed by delight, weaned by jealousy, kill'd by dissembling, buried by ingratitude, and this is love.
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Marriages are made in heaven and consummated on Earth.
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When parents put gold into the hands of youth, when they should put a rod under their girdle--when instead of awe they make them past grace, and leave them rich executors of goods, and poor executors of godliness, then it is no marvel that the son being left rich by his father's will, becomes reckless by his own will.
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The tongue, the ambassador of the heart.
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Whatsoever is in the heart of the sober man, is in the mouth of the drunkard.
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A new broome sweepeth cleane.
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If all the earth were paper white / And all the sea were ink / 'Twere not enough for me to write / As my poor heart doth think.
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The broken bone, once set together, is stronger than ever.
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Nothing so perilous as procrastination
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To give reason for fancy were to weigh the fire, and measure the wind.
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None but the lark so shrill and clear Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings, The morn not waking till she sings.
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