Where hateful Death put on his ugliest mask.

To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little more than a little is by much too much.

It is silliness to live when to live is torment.

He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion.

The Eyes are the window to your soul

When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.

How much more doth beauty beauteous seem by that sweet ornament which truth doth give!