Chapter GOLD to GRACE of Index by Grocott's Quotations - Alpha

GOLD to GRACE

GOLD.—How quickly nature falls into revolt,
When gold becomes her object!

Shakespeare.—King Henry IV. Part II. Act IV. Scene 4. (The King, on his son Prince Henry having removed the Crown.)

O cursed lust of gold! when for thy sake
The fool throws up his interest in both worlds;
First starved in this, then damn’d in that to come.

Blair.—The Grave, Line 247.

GOLD.—All that glitters is not gold.

Dryden.—Hind and Panther, Part II. Line 215.

Nor all that glisters, gold.

Gray.—On a favourite Cat, Verse 7.

All that glisters is not gold.

Shakespeare.—Merchant of Venice, Act II. Scene 7. (The skull in one of Portia’s caskets.)

Judges and senates have been bought for gold;
Esteem and love were never to be sold.

Pope.—Essay on Man, Epistle IV. Line 187.

There is no place invincible, wherein an ass loaden with gold may enter.

Collett.—Rel. of Lit. VII.; quoting the choice of change.

Stronger than thunder’s winged force
All-powerful gold can speed its course;
Through watchful guards its passage make,
And loves through solid walls to break.

Francis.—Horace, Ode XVI. Lines 11, 14.

`Tis gold which buys admittance;—and `tis gold
Which makes the true man kill’d, and saves the thief;
Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man;
What can it not do, and undo?

Shakespeare.—Cymbeline, Act II. Scene 3. (Cloten bribing Imogen’s attendant.)

Fight thou with shafts of silver, and o’ercome
When no force else can get the masterdom.

Herrick.—Hesp. Aphorism, No. 271.

Gold hath no lustre of its own,
It shines by temperate use alone.

Francis.—Horace, Book II. Ode 2.

To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,
Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.

Shakespeare.—King John, Act IV. Scene 2. (Salisbury to the King on his being crowned a second time.)

GOOD.—Oh, sir! the good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer’s dust,
Burn to the socket.

Wordsworth.—The Excursion, Book I. Page 21.