Truth Needs No Color; Beauty, No Pencil.

For Murder, Though It Have No Tongue, Will Speak With Most Miraculous Organ.

There's Her Cousin, An She Were Not Possessed With A Fury, Exceeds Her As Much In Beauty As The First Of May Doth The Last Of December.

What E'er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part.

And Worse I May Be Yet: The Worst Is Not So Long As We Can Say 'this Is The Worst.

Manhood Is Melted Into Courtesies, Valor Into Compliment, And Men Are Only Turned Into Tongue, And Trim Ones, Too.