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.

You have witchcraft in your lips

I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through the ashes of my chance.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.

Religious canons, civil laws, are cruel; then what should war be?

And since you know you cannot see yourself, so well as by reflection, I, your glass, will modestly discover to yourself, that of yourself which you yet know not of.

The let-alone lies not in your good will.