What showers arise, blown with the windy tempest of my heart
Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour; And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
To be slow in words is a woman's only virtue.
Virtue's office never breaks men's troth.
My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.
People’s good deeds we write in water. The evil deeds are etched in brass.