“Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed In one self place, for where we are is hell, And where hell is there must we ever be.”

The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike

Things that are not at all, are never lost.

Honour is purchas’d by the deeds we do.

Live and die in Aristotle’s works.

Religion! O Diabole! Fie, I am asham’d, however that I seem, To think a word of such simple sound, Of such great matter should be made the ground.

Fools that will laugh on earth, most weep in hell.

Strike up the drum and march courageously.

All places shall be hell that are not heaven.

Is it not passing brave to be a King and ride in triumph through Persepolis?

O soul, be changed into little waterdrops, / And fall into the ocean, ne’er be found!

Why should you love him whom the world hates so? Because he love me more than all the world.

Nothing violent, oft have I heard tell, can be permanent.

The griefs of private men are soon allayed, But not of kings.

It is a comfort to the miserable to have comrades in misfortune, but it is a poor comfort after all.

Religion hides many mischiefs from suspicion.

More childish valorous than manly wise.