The Many-headed Multitude, Whom Inconstancy Only Doth

What Is Birth To A Man If It Shall Be A Stain To His Dead Ancestors To Have Left Such An Offspring?

Solitude, The Sly Enemy That Doth Separate A Man From Well-doing.

Malice, In Its False Witness, Promotes Its Tale With So Cunning A Confusion, So Mingles Truths With Falsehoods, Surmises With Certainties, Causes Of No Moment With Matters Capital, That The Accused Can Absolutely Neither Grant Nor Deny, Plead Innocen.

Some Are Unwisely Liberal, And More Delight To Give Presents Than To Pay Debts.

If Any Sensual Weakness Arise, We Are To Yield All Our Sound Forces To The Overthrowing Of So Unnatural A Rebellion; Wherein How Can We Want Courage, Since We Are To Deal Against So Feeble An Adversary, That In Itself Is Nothing But Weakness? Nay, We Are To Resolve That If Reason Direct It, We Must Do It, And If We Must Do It, We Will Do It; For To Say "i Cannot" Is Childish, And "i Will Not" Is Womanish.