O, Grief Hath Changed Me Since You

True Apothecary Thy Drugs Art Quick

We Will All Laugh At Gilded Butterflies.

Bow, Stubborn Knees, And, Heart With Strings Of Steel, Be Soft As Sinews Of The New-born Babe. All Many Be Well.

Why, I' Faith, Methinks She's Too Low For A High Praise, Too Brown For A Fair Praise And Too Little For A Great Praise: Only This Commendation I Can Afford Her, That Were She Other Than She Is, She Were Unhandsome; And Being No Other But As She Is, I Do Not Like Her. (benedick, From Much Ado About Nothing)

And Do So, Love, Yet When They Have Devised What Strainèd Touches Rhetoric Can Lend, Thou, Truly Fair, Wert Truly Sympathized In True Plain Words By Thy True-telling Friend; And Their Gross Painting Might Be Better Used Where Cheeks Need Blood; In Thee It Is Abused.