The griefs of private men are soon allayed, But not of kings.
I’m armed with more than complete steel, – The justice of my quarrel.
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.
Ah fair Zenocrate, divine Zenocrate, Fair is too foul an epithet for thee.
Confess and be hanged.
Live and die in Aristotle’s works.
Our swords shall play the orators for us.
If we say that we have no sin, We deceive ourselves, and there’s no truth in us. Why then belike we must sin, And so consequently die. Ay, we must die an everlasting death.
Blood is the god of war’s rich livery.
It lies not in our power to love or hate, for will in us is overruled by fate.
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike.
Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast. What shall I do to shun the snares of death?