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.

Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And, melting, Heavens conspir'd his overthrow.

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

Confess and be hanged.

Blood is the god of war's rich livery.

Virtue is the fount whence honour springs.

Religion hides many mischiefs from suspicion.