How Much More Doth Beauty Beauteous Seem

This Sanguine Coward, This Bed-presser, This Horseback-breaker, This Huge Hill Of Flesh!

We Make Guilty Of Our Disasters The Sun, The Moon, And The Stars; As If We Were Villians By Compulsion.

Here Is A Rural Fellow That Will Not Be Denied Your Highness' Presence: He Brings You Figs.

Affection Faints Not Like A Pale-faced Coward, But Then Woos Best When Most His Choice Is Froward.

In Peace There's Nothing So Becomes A Man As Modest Stillness And Humility.