Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All in the morn betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your valentine.

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.

Words spoken can not be recalled so think twice before you speak.

He was ever precise in promise-keeping.

But yet, I say, if imputation and strong circumstances, which lead directly to the door of truth, will give you satisfaction, you may have it.

Vice repeated is like the wandering wind, blows dust in others' eyes to spread itself.

If our virtues did not go forth of us, it were all alike as if we had them not.