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.

And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd

When you depart from me sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.

For honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar.

Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.

Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!

What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!