An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England.

For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.

For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

In struggling with misfortunes lies the true proof of virtue.

Let every eye negotiate for itself and trust no agent.

Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy, kinsman to grim and comfortless despair.

These violent delights have violent ends.