O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.

I see, sir, you are liberal in offers. You taught me first to beg, and now methinks You teach me how a beggar should be answered.

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, to drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears.

A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.

Every thing that grows / Holds in perfection but a little moment.

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven