But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupts, but being seasoned with a gracious voice obscures the show of evil.
I would give all of my fame for a pot of ale and safety.
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
I dote on his very absence.
Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.