He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.
William ShakespeareTo be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.
William ShakespeareMethinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.
William ShakespeareHow 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.
William Shakespeare