Scratching could not make it worse, an't were such a face as yours were.
Get thee glass eyes, and like a scurvy politician, seem to see the things thou dost not.
Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying!
Dispute not with her: she is lunatic.
If ever (as that ever may be near) you meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, then shall you know the wounds invisible that love's keen, arrows make.
I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.