Is not the truth the truth?

O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!

Within the book and volume of thy brain.

All is well ended, if the suit be won.

Time is the king of men.

Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts?

I say, without characters, fame lives long.