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The wound that bleedeth inward is most dangerous.

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
Wound
Inward
Wounds
Dangerous

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A new broome sweepeth cleane.
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Thou shalt come out of a warme Sunne into God's blessing.
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The bee that hath honey in her mouth hath a sting in her tail.
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To give reason for fancy were to weigh the fire, and measure the wind.
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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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If you will be cherished when you are old, be courteous while you be young.
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When adversities flow, then love ebbs but friendship standeth stiffly in storms.
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Marriage is destinie, made in heaven.
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As love knoweth no lawes, so it regardeth no conditions
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Thou art an heyre to fayre lying, that is nothing, if thou be disinherited of learning, for better were it to thee to inherite righteousnesse then riches, and far more seemly were if for thee to haue thy Studie full of bookes, then thy pursse full of mony.
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A merry companion is as good as a wagon, For you shall be sure to ride though ye go a foot.
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The broken bone, once set together, is stronger than ever.
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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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To love and to live well is wished of many, but incident to few.
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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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Far more seemly to have thy study full of books, than thy purse full of money.
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Whatsoever is in the heart of the sober man, is in the mouth of the drunkard.
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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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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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If love be a god, why should not lovers be virtuous?
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