And Thou, All-shaking Thunder, Strike Flat The

Gloucester: I Do Not Know That Englishman Alive With Whom My Soul Is Any Jot At Odds, More Than The Infant That Is Born To-night: I Thank My God For My Humility.

But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

Alas, That Love, So Gentle In His View, Should Be So Tyrannous And Rough In Proof! *it’s Sad. Love Looks Like A Nice Thing, But It’s Actually Very Rough When You Experience It.*

A True Repentance Shuns The Evil Itself, More Than The External Suffering Or The Shame.

Those, That With Haste Will Make A Mighty Fire, Begin It With Weak Straws.