He that feareth is a slave, were he never so rich, were he never so powerful. But he that is without fear is king of all the world.

The black arrowed swoop of the moment swung high into the unceilinged future, ten, fifty, sixty years, may be: then, past seeing, up to that warmthless unconsidered mock-time, when nothing shall be left but the memorial that fits all (except, if there be, the most unhappiest) of human kind: I was not, I lived and loved, I am not.

Can a woman not keep her lover without she study to always please him with pleasure? Pew! Then let her give up the game. Or shall my lover think with pleasing of me to win me indeed? Faugh! He payeth me then; doth he think I am for hire?

The harvest of this world is to the resolute, and he that is infirm of purpose is ground betwixt the upper and the nether millstone

The great mountains of the world are a great remedy if men but did know it against our modern discontent and ambitions. In the hills is wisdom's fount. They are deep in time.

He that feareth is a slave, were he never so rich, were he never so powerful. But he that is without fear is king of all the world.