Lust carries her sharp whip At her own girdle.

Are you grown an atheist? Will you turn your body, Which is the goodly palace of the soul, To the soul's slaughter-house? Oh, the curse' d devil, Which doth present us with all other sins Thrice-candied o'er.

In all our quest of greatness, like wanton boys, whose pastime is their care, we follow after bubbles, blown in the air.

How many ills spring from adultery? First the supreme law that is violated, Nobility oft stain'd with bastardy, Inheritance of land falsely possessed, The husband scorn'd, wife sham'd, and babes unbless'd.

The chiefest action for a man of great spirit is never to be out of action... the soul was never put into the body to stand still.

Were there no heaven nor hell I should be honest.

See, a good habit makes a child a man, Whereas a bad one makes a man a beast.