There is no greater hell than to be a prisoner of fear.
That old bald cheater, Time.
Spread yourself upon his bosom publicly, whose heart you would eat in private.
Whom hatred frights, let him not dream of sovereignty.
Whom the disease of talking still once posses-seth, he can never hold his peace.
Minds that are great and free, should not on fortune pause: 'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.