I am Envy...I cannot read and therefore wish all books burned.

What are kings, when regiment is gone, but perfect shadows in a sunshine day?

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

Our swords shall play the orators for us.

I'm armed with more than complete steel, - The justice of my quarrel.

Ah fair Zenocrate, divine Zenocrate, Fair is too foul an epithet for thee.