More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn.
Than women's are.
Twelfth Night, A. 2, S. 4.
'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.
Twelfth Night, A. 1, S. 5.
Fresh tears
Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd.
Titus Andronicus, A. 3, S. 1.