Stars Hide Your Fires; Let Not Light

I Do Know Of These That Therefore Only Are Reputed Wise For Saying Nothing.

Your Lordship, Though Not Clean Past Your Youth, Have Yet Some Smack Of Age In You, Some Relish Of The Saltiness Of Time.

To You Your Father Should Be As A God; One That Composed Your Beauties, Yea, And One To Whom You Are But As A Form In Wax, By Him Imprinted, And Within His Power To Leave The Figure Or Disfigure It.

To Weep Is To Make Less The Depth Of Grief.

There Was Never Yet Fair Woman But She Made Mouths In A Glass.