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

Strike up the drum and march courageously.

I am Envy...I cannot read and therefore wish all books burned.

Confess and be hanged.

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.

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

The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike