William Shakespeare

Cytherea,
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed, fresh lily,
And whiter than the sheets!

Cytherea,
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed, fresh lily,
And whiter than the sheets!

Harp not on that string, madam; that is past.

Harp not on that string, madam; that is past.

And in the morn and liquid dew of youth,
Contagious blastments are are most imminent.

And in the morn and liquid dew of youth,
Contagious blastments are are most imminent.

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. He hates our sacred nation, and he rails, Even there read more

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. He hates our sacred nation, and he rails, Even there where merchants most do congregate. -The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 3.

Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find,
The error of our eye directs our mind.
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Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find,
The error of our eye directs our mind.
What error leads must error.