Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!
Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of authority.
If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!
Gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, I gain'd my freedom.
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold
An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England.