Tired With All These, For Restful Death

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.

That Which Is Now A Horse, Even With A Thought The Rack Dislimms, And Makes It Indistinct As Water Is In Water

Striving To Better, Oft We Mar What’s Well.

Thus Hath The Candle Sing'd The Moth. O These Deliberate Fools!

Kindness Nobler Ever Than Revenge.