Love me little, love me long.
Things that are not at all, are never lost.
All places shall be hell that are not heaven.
Goodness is beauty in the best estate.
Virtue is the fount whence honour springs.
I count religion but a childish toy, and hold there is no sin but ignorance.
Time doth run with calm and silent foot, Shortening my days and thread of vital life.
Nothing violent, oft have I heard tell, can be permanent.
All women are ambitious naturallie.
He that loves pleasure must for pleasure fall.
You stars that reigned at my nativity, whose influence hath allotted death and hell.
The griefs of private men are soon allayed, But not of kings.
Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ileum?
Lone women, like to empty houses, perish.
Infinite riches in a little room.
That perfect bliss and sole felicity, the sweet fruition of an earthly crown.
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.
Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, And burned is Apollo’s laurel bough, That sometime grew within this learned man. Faustus is gone.
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.
He must have a long spoon that eats with the devil.