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 we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

Tush! Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate; Talkers are no good doers: be assured We come to use our hands and not our tongues.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.

For where is any author in the world Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye?

You have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser.

Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud.