Every fair from fair sometime declines

Is she kind as she is fair?

And to the English court assemble now, From every region, apes of idleness!

He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair: The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.

Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.