Silence Is The Perfect Herald Of Joy.

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.

Cursed Be He That Moves My Bones.

A Violet In The Youth Of Primy Nature, Forward, Not Permanent--sweet, Not Lasting; The Perfume And Suppliance Of A Minute; No More.

All Hoods Make Not Monks.

I Am Very Proud, Revengeful, Ambitious, With More Offences At My Beck Than I Have Thoughts To Put Them In, Imagination To Give Them Shape, Or Time To Act Them In.