I'm armed with more than complete steel, - The justice of my quarrel.
Is it not passing brave to be a King and ride in triumph through Persepolis?
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.
All places shall be hell that are not heaven.
Live and die in Aristotle's works.
Ah fair Zenocrate, divine Zenocrate, Fair is too foul an epithet for thee.