It is a comfort to the miserable to have comrades in misfortune, but it is a poor comfort after all.
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?
Pluck up your hearts, since fate still rests our friend.
It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery.
The mightiest kings have had their minions; Great Alexander loved Hephaestion, The conquering Hercules for Hylas wept; And for Patroclus, stern Achilles drooped. And not kings only, but the wisest men: The Roman Tully loved Octavius, Grave Socrates, wild Alcibiades.
Si peccasse negamus, fallimur, et nulla est in nobis veritas; 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. What doctrine call you this, Che sera, sera,19 What will be, shall be? Divinity, adieu!
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned.
The God Thou servest is thine own appetite, wherein is fixed the love of Beelzebub. To Him I’ll build an altar and a church, and offer lukewarm blood of new-born babes.
USUMCASANE: To be a king, is half to be a god.
By the power of truth, I, while living, have conquered the the universe.
Stipendium peccati mors est.
A diamond set in lead his worth retains.
Was not that Lucifer an angel once?