It is well said, my lords, after the fashion this world holds honourable.

But I ask, did Job fear God for nought?
But I say, consider the Maccabees.

All your broad lands are not worth the rent of that little garden enclosed, where among ranked lilies sat Mary singing, God rest Thee, babe, I am Thy mother and daughter.

You wag the head and an enemy dieth.

You say, Come up, and some wretch getteth title to make others wretched.