Our Enemies Are Our Outward Consciences.

For There Was Never Yet Philosoper That Could Endure The Toothache Patiently, However They Have Writ The Style Of Gods, And Made A Push At Chance And Sufferance.

Nothing Can Come Of Nothing.

All Things That Are, Are With More Spirit Chased Than Enjoyed.

The Dear Father Would With His Daughter Speak, Commands Her Service; Are They Inform'd Of This?

Romeo: Courage, Man; The Hurt Cannot Be Much. Mercutio: No, 'tis Not So Deep As A Well, Nor So Wide As A Church-door; But 'tis Enough, 'twill Serve. Ask For Me Tomorrow, And You Shall Find Me A Grave Man.