There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.
Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter, Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty, Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare, No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honor; As much as child e'er loved, or father found, A love that makes breath poor and speech unable.
There's no art To find the mind's construction in the face.
Old fools are babes again, and must be used With checks as flatteries.
You have some sick offence within your mind, Which by the right and virtue of my place I ought to know of.
I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past.
From the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth.
A woman moved is like a fountain troubled. Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty, And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it.
For who would bare the whips and scorns of time, Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th'unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin?
I know not how, But I do find it cowardly and vile, For fear of what might fall, so to prevent The time of life—arming myself with patience To stay the providence of some high powers That govern us below.