Yet is every man his greatest enemy, and, as it were, his own executioner.

Death hath a thousand doors to let out life. I shall find one.

Praise is a debt we owe unto the virtue of others, and due unto our own from all whom malice hath not made mutes, or envy struck dumb.

There is something in us that can be without us, and will be after us, though indeed it hath no history of what it was before us, and cannot tell how it entered into us.

I love to lose myself in a mystery to pursue my reason to an O altitudo.

There are mystically in our faces certain characters which carry in them the motto of our souls, wherein he that cannot read may read our natures.

Half our days we pass in the shadow of the earth; and the brother of death exacteth a third part of our lives.