'Twixt kings and tyrans there's this difference known:
Kings seek their subjects' good, tyrants their owne.

'Twixt kings and tyrans there's this difference known:
Kings seek their subjects' good, tyrants their owne.

The tyrant dies and his rule ends, the martyr dies and his rule begins.

The tyrant dies and his rule ends, the martyr dies and his rule begins.

Any excuse will serve a tyrant.

Any excuse will serve a tyrant.

For what is he they follow? Truly, gentlemen,
A bloody tyrant and a homicide;
One raised in read more

For what is he they follow? Truly, gentlemen,
A bloody tyrant and a homicide;
One raised in blood and one in blood established;
One that made means to come by what he hath,
And slaughtered those that were the means to help him;
A base foul stone, made precious by the foil
Of England's chair, where he is falsely set;
One that hath ever been God's enemy.

Tyranny
Absolves all faith; and who invades our rights,
Howe'er his own commence, can never be
read more

Tyranny
Absolves all faith; and who invades our rights,
Howe'er his own commence, can never be
But an usurper.

Tyrants have always some slight shade of virtue; they support the laws before destroying them

Tyrants have always some slight shade of virtue; they support the laws before destroying them

Hateful is the power, and pitiable is the life, of those who wish to be feared rather than loved.

Hateful is the power, and pitiable is the life, of those who wish to be feared rather than loved.

The tyranny of a prince in an oligarchy is not so dangerous to the public welfare as the apathy of read more

The tyranny of a prince in an oligarchy is not so dangerous to the public welfare as the apathy of a citizen in a democracy

I knew him tyrannous; and tyrants' fears
Decrease not, but grow faster than the years;
And should read more

I knew him tyrannous; and tyrants' fears
Decrease not, but grow faster than the years;
And should he doubt it, as no doubt he doth,
That I should open to the list'ning air
How many worthy princes' bloods were shed
To keep his bed of blackness unlaid ope,
To lop that doubt, he'll fill this land with arms
And make pretense of wrong that I have done him;
When all, for mine, if I may call offense,
Must feel war's blow, who spares not innocence;
Which love to all, of which thyself art one,
Who now reproved'st me for't--