The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burnt on the water.
He doth nothing but talk of his horses.
Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania
O Judgment ! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason !
Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour; And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
They that touch pitch will be defiled.