My dear dear lord,
The purest treasure mortal times afford
Is spotless reputation; that away,
Men are but gilded loam or painted clay. (1.1.6)
Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair.
In suff'ring thus thy brother to be slaughtered,
Thou show'st the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern Murder how to butcher thee.
That which in mean men we entitle patience
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts. (1.2.1)
That England that was wont to conquer others
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself. (2.1.3)