Things that are not at all, are never lost.

It lies not in our power to love or hate, for will in us is overruled by fate.

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.

Jigging veins of rhyming mother wits.

Ah fair Zenocrate, divine Zenocrate, Fair is too foul an epithet for thee.

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.

I count religion but a childish toy, and hold there is no sin but ignorance.