Nothing routs us but the villainy of our fears.

Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more.

The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.

I hate ingratitude more in a man than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, or any taint of vice whose strong corruption inhabits our frail blood".

These words are razors to my wounded heart.

I am a man more sinned against than sinning

What a piece of work is a man