Our swords shall play the orators for us.
O, thou art fairer than the evening air clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.
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.
Religion hides many mischiefs from suspicion.
I am Envy...I cannot read and therefore wish all books burned.
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike