Virtue, if not in action, is a vice

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

What a sea Of melting ice I walk on!

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,

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

Death hath a thousand doors to let out life.

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