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.
I’m armed with more than complete steel, – The justice of my quarrel.
He must have a long spoon that eats with the devil.
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.
Religion hides many mischiefs from suspicion.
Virginity, albeit some highly prize it, Compared with marriage, had you tried them both, Differs as much as wine and water doth.
What art thou Faustus, but a man condemned to die?
It is a comfort to the miserable to have comrades in misfortune, but it is a poor comfort after all.
Jigging veins of rhyming mother wits.
Is it not passing brave to be a King and ride in triumph through Persepolis?
Fools that will laugh on earth, most weep in hell.
Excess of wealth is cause of covetousness.
Accurst be he that first invented war.