There is flattery in friendship.
He that loves to be flattered is worthy o' the flatterer.
But here's the joy: my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery!
By God, I cannot flatter, I do defy The tongues of soothers! but a braver place In my heart's love hath no man than yourself. Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord.
Nay, do not think I flatter. For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?
Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; For 'get you gone,' she doth not mean 'away.' Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces
O that men's ears should be To counsel deaf but not to flattery!
If he be so resolved, I can o'ersway him; for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betrayed with trees And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers
What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery?
Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart, That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her.
They do not abuse the king that flatter him. For flattery is the bellows blows up sin; The thing the which is flattered, but a spark To which that blast gives heat and stronger glowing.
I will praise any man that will praise me.
Oh, flatter me; for love delights in praises.
Should the poor be flattered? No; let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, and crook the pregnant hinges of the knee where thrift may follow fawning.
They told me I was everything. 'Tis a lie, I am not ague-proof.
I have trod a measure, I have flattered a lady, I have been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy.
What wouldst thou do, old man? Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak When power to flattery bows?
He does me double wrong That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue.
We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves And spend our flatteries to drink those men Upon whose age we void it up again With poisonous spite and envy.
No visor does become black villainy so well as soft and tender flattery.
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