Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes.

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

We will all laugh at gilded butterflies.

Drown thyself? Drown cats and blind puppies.

Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.

Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway, meeting the check of such another day.

None can cure their harms by wailing them.