O wretched state! o bosom black as death!
Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant can trickle when she wounds!
Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.
No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.
God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.
All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told.