BIRON:
A withered hermit, fivescore winters worn,
Might shake off fifty looking in her eye.
Beauty doth varnish age, as if new born,
And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy.
Oh, 'tis the sun that maketh all things shine!
William Shakespeare - Love's Labour's Lost (4.3)
PRINCESS:
And out of question so it is sometimes:
Glory grows guilty of detested crimes,
When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part,
We bend to that the working of the heart;
William Shakespeare - Love's Labour's Lost (4.1)
PRINCESS:
Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean,
Needs not the painted flourish of your praise.
Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye,
Not uttered by base sale of chapmen's tongues.
William Shakespeare - Love's Labour's Lost (2.1)
