Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour; And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
What is aught but as 'tis valued?
Why should we rise because 'tis light? Did we lie down because t'was night?
I will make thee think thy swan a crow.
Truth hath a quiet breast.
For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.