Is It Not Strange, That Sheep's Guts

He Was Too Good To Be Where Ill Men Were, And Was The Best Of All Amongst The Rar'st Of Good Ones- Sitting Sadly Hearing Us Praise Our Loves Of Italy For Beauty That Made Barren The Swell'd Boast Of Him That Best Could Speak; For Feature, Laming The Shrine Of Venus Or Straight-pight Minerva, Postures Beyond Brief Nature; For Condition, A Shop Of All The Qualities That Man Loves Woman For; Besides That Hook Of Wiving, Fairness Which Strikes The Eye- Cymbeline.

What Stronger Breastplate Than A Heart Untainted! Thrice Is He Arm'd, That Hath His Quarrel Just.

Mine Eyes Are Full Of Tears, My Heart Of Grief.

My Heart Laments That Virtue Cannot Live Out Of The Teeth Of Emulation.

There Is Little Choice In A Barrel Of Rotten Apples.