Twas a clever quibble. Here, a garment for it.

We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.

Much rain wears the marble.

What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” “My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy it is then! Your constancy hath left you unattended.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear

Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of Our human generation you shall find.