Like a rough orator, that brings more truth

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,

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

What a sea Of melting ice I walk on!

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.

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