Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.
You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts, make yourselves praised.
Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?