Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast. What shall I do to shun the snares of death?

Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And, melting, Heavens conspir’d his overthrow.

It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery.

Live and die in Aristotle’s works.

If we say that we have no sin, We deceive ourselves, and there’s no truth in us. Why then belike we must sin, And so consequently die. Ay, we must die an everlasting death.

Blood is the god of war’s rich livery.

Had I as many souls as there be stars, I’d give them all for Mephistopheles!

By the power of truth, I, while living, have conquered the the universe.

Honour is purchas’d by the deeds we do.

USUMCASANE: To be a king, is half to be a god.