So may the outward shows be least themselves, the world is still deceived with ornament.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace.
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much.
Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass that I may see my shadow as I pass.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.
See, see what showers arise, blown with the windy tempest of my heart.
See that you come not to woo honour, but to wed it.
Season your admiration for awhile.
Sable Night, mother of Dread and Fear, Upon the world dim darkness doth display, And in her vaulty prison stows the Day.
Rumour is a pipe blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures and of so easy and so plain a stop that the blunt monster with uncounted heads, the still-discordant wavering multitude, can play upon it.