So May He Rest, His Faults Lie

Glory Grows Guilty Of Detested Crimes.

And Simple Truth Miscalled Simplicity

O, Let Me Kiss That Hand! King Lear: Let Me Wipe It First; It Smells Of Mortality.

Every Fair From Fair Sometime Declines

Gloucester, We Have Done Deeds Of Charity, Made Peace Of Enmity, Fair Love Of Hate, Between These Swelling Wrong-incensed Peers.