O world, world! thus is the poor agent despised. O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavor be so loved, and the performance so loathed?

I will be free, even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.

I am afeard there are few die well that die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument?

What fates impose, that men must needs abide; it boots not to resist both wind and tide.

Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.

A ministering angel shall my sister be.

This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions; these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion.