The Rose Looks Fair, But Fairer We

Brevity Is The Soul Of Wit.

That In The Captains But A Choleric Word Which In The Soldier Is Flat Blasphemy.

Think'st Thou It Honourable For A Noble Man Still To Remember Wrongs?

Oh, She Doth Teach The Torches To Burn Bright! It Seems She Hangs Upon The Cheek Of Night Like A Rich Jewel In An Ethiope’s Ear, Beauty Too Rich For Use, For Earth Too Dear. So Shows A Snowy Dove Trooping With Crows As Yonder Lady O'er Her Fellows Shows. The Measure Done, I’ll Watch Her Place Of Stand, And, Touching Hers, Make Blessèd My Rude Hand. Did My Heart Love Till Now? Forswear It, Sight! For I Ne'er Saw True Beauty Till This Night.

A Peevish Self-willed Harlotry It Is. *she’s A Stubborn Little Brat.*