Thomas Otway (3 March 1652 – 14 April 1685) was an English dramatist of the Restoration period, best known for Venice Preserv'd, or A Plot Discover'd (1682).
You wags that judge by rote, and damn by rule.
How many men Have spent their blood in their dear country's service, Yet now pine under want; while selfish slaves, That even would cut their throats whom now they fawn on, Like deadly locusts, eat the honey up, Which those industrious bees so hardly toil'd for.
Ambition is a lust that is never quenched, but grows more inflamed and madder by enjoyment.
I may boldly speak In right, though proud oppression will not hear me!
Justice is lame as well as blind, amongst us.
Who can describe Women's hypocrisies! their subtle wiles, Betraying smiles, feign'd tears, inconstancies! Their painted outsides, and corrupted minds, The sum of all their follies, and their falsehoods.
Dame Fortune, like most others of the female sex, is generally most indulgent to the nimble-mettled blockheads.
Children blessings seem, but torments are.
The poor sleep little.
If love be treasure, we'll be wondrous rich.
Cowards are scared with threatenings; boys are whipped into confession; but a steady mind acts of itself, ne'er asks the body counsel.
Let us embrace, and from this very moment vow an eternal misery together.
No praying, it spoils business.
And for an apple damn'd mankind.
Honesty was a cheat invented first To bind the hands of bold deserving rogues, That fools and cowards might sit safe in power, And lord it uncontroll'd above their betters.
Oh woman! lovely woman! nature made thee To temper man; we had been brutes without you; Angels are painted fair to look like you; There's in you all that we believe of heaven, Amazing brightness, purity, and truth, Eternal joy, and everlasting love.
What mighty ills have not been done by woman! Who was't betray'd the Capitol? A woman; Who lost Mark Antony the world? A woman; Who was the cause of a long ten years' war, And laid at last old Troy is ashes? Woman; Destructive, damnable, deceitful woman!
Could my griefs speak, the tale would have no end.
Home I would go But that my doors are hateful to my eyes, Fill'd and damm'd up with gaping creditors, Watchful as fowlers when their game will spring.
O woman! lovely woman! Nature made thee To temper man: we had been brutes without you.