I love thee; none but thee, and thou deservest it

GLOUCESTER: Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, As I had rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smother'd. But God be thanked. . . .

Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.

Gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, I gain'd my freedom.

Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour's at the stake.

Twas never merry world Since lowly feigning was called compliment.

There is no vice so simple but assumes some mark of virtue on his outward parts.