Love Is Merely A Madness.

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.

It Is As Easy To Count Atomies As To Resolve The Propositions Of A Lover.

O Momentary Grace Of Mortal Men, Which We More Hunt For Than The Grace Of God!

In Truth, Fair Montague, I Am Too Fond.

Ambition, The Soldier's Virtue, Rather Makes Choice Of Loss, Than Gain Which Darkens Him.