Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good; a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly; a flower that dies when it begins to bud; a doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

Your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole.

But till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, and excellent musician and her hair shall be of what colour it shall please God.

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth

Venus smiles not in a house of tears.

Thou weedy elf-skinned canker-blossom!