Thomas Nashe Quotes

Surely 't is better, when summer is over To die when all fair things are fading away.

A frail gift is beauty, which grows less as time draws on, and is devoured by its own years.

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good; a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly; a flower that dies when it begins to bud; a doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.

Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.

Perhaps the wind Wails so in winter for the summers dead, And all sad sounds are nature's funeral cries For what has been and is not.

Death devours all lovely things.

If I describe a sunny morning in May (the buds, the wet-winged flies, the warm sun and cool breeze), I am also implying the perishing quality of a morning in May, and a good description of May sets up the possibility of a May disaster.

Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.

It was like that all the time, in those years: an endless trip, a gaudy voyage. But powers decay. Time leaches the colors from the best of visions. The world becomes grayer. Entropy beats us down. Everything fades. Everything goes. Everything dies.

Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.

All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest.

The Flower that once has blown forever dies.

There's a sadness about love, a melancholy and a sadness about beauty. It's just part of the human experience of living on this planet.

Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses.

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?

But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare rare it be; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country?

I cried over beautiful things, knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

When we're alive, life consumes us. But when we die, all of the color and the motion is gone so quickly, it's as though it can no longer stand to be wasted on us.

Man passes away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.

All beauty that surrounds us must one day perish.

Once off the bush The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not. -Blackberry picking

All beauty is sad. [...] For it fades.