What the great ones do, the less will prattle of
My heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand.
There's beggary in love that can be reckoned
When you depart from me sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.
Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir.
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.