The heart of man is the place the devil dwells in; I feel sometimes a hell within myself.

No one should approach the temple of science with the soul of a money changer.

To be nameless in worthy deeds exceeds an infamous history.

What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, though puzzling questions, are not beyond all conjecture.

Men have lost their reason in nothing so much as their religion, wherein stones and clouts make martyrs.

As sins proceed they ever multiply, and like figures in arithmetic, the last stands for more than all that wert before it.

There are no grotesques in nature; not anything framed to fill up empty cantons, and unnecessary spaces.