It is not the lie that passeth through the mind, but the lie that sinketh in and settleth in it, that doth the hurt.

Death is a friend of ours; and he that is not ready to entertain him is not at home.

But we may go further, and affirm most truly, that it is a mere and miserable solitude to want true friends; without which the world is but a wilderness.

For friends... do but look upon good Books: they are true friends, that will neither flatter nor dissemble.

The pencil of the Holy Ghost hath labored more in describing the afflictions of Job than the felicities of Solomon.

A forbidden writing is thought to be a certain spark of truth, that flies up in the face of them who seek to tread it out.

Men are rather beholden ... generally to chance or anything else, than to logic, for the invention of arts and sciences.