The coward dies a thousand deaths, the valiant, only once!
These words are razors to my wounded heart.
Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: โtis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil
Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good, but graciously to know I am no better.
Fruits that blossom first will first be ripe.
Headstrong liberty is lashed with woe.