Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
Women's weapons, water-drops.
Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
He that has a house to put's head in has a good head-piece.
As chaste as unsunned snow.
I had rather be a toad, and live upon the vapor of a dungeon than keep a corner in the thing I love for others uses.