In nature there's no blemish but the mind. None can be called deformed but the unkind.

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica: look, how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins. Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

How wayward is this foolish love that, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse and presently, all humble, kiss the rod.

Soft pity enters an iron gate.

Manhood is melted into courtesies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones, too.

But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

Honesty is the best policy. If I lose mine honor, I lose myself.