Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair, Or but as mild as she is seeming so, Then were my hopes greater than my despair, Then all the world were heaven,… - Robert Greene

There is an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers, that with his tiger's heart wrapped in a player's hide supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you: and being an absolute Johannes Factotum, is in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a country.

Ah Franion, treason is loved of many, but the Traitor hated of all: unjust offences may for a time escape without danger, but never without revenge.

Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows;
Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd bower.
Yet, were she willing to be pluck'd and worn,
She would be gather'd, though she grew on thorn.