How Ill White Hairs Become

Therefore The Moon, The Governess Of Floods, Pale In Her Anger Washes All The Air, That Rheumatic Diseases Do Abound; And Through This Distemperature We See The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.

We Do Pray For Mercy, And That Same Prayer Doth Teach Us All To Render The Deeds Of Mercy.

It Is Not, Nor It Cannot, Come To Good, But Break, My Heart, For I Must Hold My Tongue.

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)

Upon His Royal Face There Is No Note How Dread An Army Hath Enrounded Him.