Virtue Is The Fount Whence Honour Springs.

He That Loves Pleasure Must For Pleasure Fall.

What Art Thou Faustus, But A Man Condemned To Die?

Who Hateth Me But For My Happiness? Or Who Is Honored Now But For His Wealth? Rather Had I, A Jew, Be Hated Thus, Than Pitied In A Christian Poverty.

Lone Women, Like To Empty Houses, Perish.

Love Is Not Ful Of Pittie (as Men Say) But Deaffe And Cruell, Where He Meanes To Pray.