There Lives Within The Very Flame Of

What Our Contempts Do Often Hurl From Us, We Wish It Ours Again.

You Kiss By Th' Book.

That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect, For Slander's Mark Was Ever Yet The Fair; The Ornament Of Beauty Is Suspect, A Crow That Flies In Heaven's Sweetest Air.

Our Very Eyes Are Sometimes, Like Our Judgments, Blind.

Why, I Can Smile And Murder Whiles I Smile, And Cry 'content' To That Which Grieves My Heart, And Wet My Cheeks With Artificial Tears, And Frame My Face For All Occasions