Scratching could not make it worse, an't were such a face as yours were.
Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.
Farewell, fair cruelty.
See where she comes apparelled like the spring.
My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.
Poor and content, is rich and rich enough; But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter, To him that ever fears he shall be poor.