Philip Massinger

Quiet night that brings Rest to the labourer, is the outlaw's day, In which he rises early to do wrong, And when his work is ended, dares not sleep.

Like a rough orator, that brings more truth Than rhetoric, to make good his accusation.

But in our Sanazarro 'tis not so, He being pure and tried gold; and any stamp Of grace, to make him current to the world, The duke is pleased to give him, will add honour To the great bestower; for he, though allow'd Companion to his …

This many-headed monster, The giddy multitude.

Some undone widow sits upon mine arm, And takes away the use of it; and my sword, Glued to my scabbard with wronged orphans' tears, Will not be drawn.

What a bridge Of glass I walk upon, over a river Of certain ruin! Mine own weighty fears Cracking what should support me:—And those helps, Which confidence yields to others, are from me Ravish'd by doubts, and wilful jealousy.

He that would govern others, first should be the master of himself.

The oath in any way or form you please, I stand resolv'd to take it.

To doubt Is worse than to have lost; and to despair Is but to antedate those miseries That must fall on us.

Be wise; Soar not too high, to fall; but stoop to rise.

Out, you impostors! Quack-salving, cheating mountebanks! Your skill Is to make sound men sick, and sick men kill.

He That kills himself to avoid misery, fears it, And, at the best, shows but a bastard valour. This life's a fort committed to my trust, Which I must not yield up till it be forc'd. —Nor will I. He's not valiant that dares die,

What a sea Of melting ice I walk on!

Virtue, if not in action, is a vice, And, when we move not forward, we go backward.

Death hath a thousand doors to let out life.

The good needs fear no law, It is his safety and the bad man's awe.