A hit, a very palpable hit.

We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

So full of artless jealousy is guilt,It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

I must be cruel, only to be kind:Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

O, woe is me,To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!

I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another.