Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides:
Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate…”

“Apaga, estrela, pra luz não ver os meus desígnios negros. Fique o olho cego à m…”

“Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tearsHad left the flushing of her gallèd e…”

“Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?”