A Quote by William Shakespeare

Fair ladies, masked, are roses in their bud; Dismasked, the damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
Lawn as white as driven snow; Cyprus black as e'er was crow; Gloves as sweet as damask roses.
There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.
Though one were fair as roses His beauty clouds and closes.
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud; Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lies in sweetest bud. All men make faults.
Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses โ€” The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end โ€” of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.
I feel like the Roses were a great group, but I never wanted to try to do it again. I knew I couldn't get a band that would compare to the Roses, that would have an impact like the Roses.
Roses! I swear you men have all your romance from the same worn book. Flowers are a good thing, a sweet thing to give a lady. But it is always roses, always red, and always perfect hothouse blooms when they can come by them.
And still I look for the men who will dare to be roses of England wild roses of England men who are wild roses of England with metal thorns, beware! but still more brave and still more rare the courage of rosiness in a cabbage world fragrance of roses in a stale stink of lies rose-leaves to bewilder the clever fools and rose-briars to strangle the machine.
Ever since Blessed Alan de la Roche re-established this devotion the voice of the people, which is the voice of God, called it the Rosary. The word Rosary means "Crown of Roses" that is to say that every time people say the Rosary devoutly they place a crown of one hundred and fifty-three red roses and sixteen white roses upon the heads of Jesus and Mary. Being heavenly flowers these roses will never fade or lose their exquisite beauty.
Sweet, can I sing you the song of your kisses? How soft is this one, how subtle this is, How fluttering swift as a bird's kiss that is, As a bird that taps at a leafy lattice; How this one clings and how that uncloses From bud to flower in the way of roses.
It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad.
Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses
Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, a box where sweets compacted lie.
Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew! In quiet she reposes; Ah, would that I did too!
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