Truth Hath A Quiet Breast.

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.

Man, Proud Man, Drest In A Little Brief Authority, Most Ignorant Of What He's Most Assured.

No, No; 'tis All Men's Office To Speak Patience To Those That Wring Under The Load Of Sorrow, But No Man's Virtue Nor Sufficiency To Be So Moral When He Shall Endure The Like Himself. Therefore Give Me No Counsel: My Griefs Cry Louder Than Advertisement.

And Therefore Is Love Said To Be A Child, Because In Choice He Is So Oft Beguil'd

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.