And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire, The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.

In nature there's no blemish but the mind. None can be called deformed but the unkind.

Oh, how this spring of love resembleth, The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all beauty of the Sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away

Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear.

They that touch pitch will be defiled.

Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?

I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquillity.