Ay, but to die and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstrution and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.

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

Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too.

My heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand.

To wilful men, the injuries that they themselves procure must be their schoolmasters.

A woman's thought runs before her actions.

My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.