Their lips were four red roses on a stalk.

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.

When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.

Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.

The small amount of foolery wise men have makes a great show.

He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.

A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*