Candido. That which green wounds receive from sovereign balm.
Patience, my lord! why, 'tis the soul of peace;
Of all the virtues 'tis nearest kin to heaven:
It makes men look gods. The best of men
That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer,
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit—
The first true gentleman that ever breathed.
The stock of patience, then, cannot be poor;
All it desires it has: what award more?
It is the greatest enemy to strife