“Who hateth me but for my happiness? Or who is honored now but for his wealth? Rather had I, a Jew, be hated thus, Than pitied in a Christian poverty.”

Now I will show myself to have more of the serpent than the dove; That is–more knave than fool.

Above our life we love a steadfast friend.

Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer, Conspired against our God with Lucifer, And are for ever damned with Lucifer.

All women are ambitious naturally.

You stars that reigned at my nativity, whose influence hath allotted death and hell.

My men like satyrs grazing on the lawns, / Shall with their goat-feet dance an antic hay.

Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And, melting, Heavens conspir’d his overthrow.

Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

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.