in that small [time] most greatly lived this star of England: Fortune made his sword, By which the world's best garden he achiev'd And left it to his son imperial lord. Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown'd King of France and England did this King succeed; Whose state so many of had the managing, That they lost France and made his England bleed.

There are no tricks in plain and simple faith.

Greatness knows itself.

How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping?

The good I stand on is my truth and honesty.

Conscience is a thousand swords.

Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.