Conscience doth make cowards of us all.
A smile cures the wounding of a frown.
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.
It is lost at dice, what ancient honor won.
I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.
How soar sweet music is, when time is broke, and no proportion kept!