Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.
Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft.
Summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Love does not see with the eyes, but with the soul.
Truth needs no color; beauty, no pencil.