“FRANCISCUS: How sweetly she looks! Oh, but there's a wrinkle in her brow as deep as philosophy.”

“How sweetly she looks! O, but there's a wrinkle in her brow as deep as philosophy. - Anacreon, drink to my mistress' health, I'll pledge it. Stay, stay, there's a spider in the cup! No, 'tis but a grape-stone; swallow it, fear nothing, poet. So, so; lift higher.”

“Her soft pink lips, her sweet breath . . . oh, how my soul beckons hers.”

“How sweetly he came to her, she thought. Even with his bulk and power, he came to her...sweetly.”

“When she looked in the mirror these days, she saw someone she didn't recognize...She saw an old woman trying to be beautiful, her skin dry and her wrinkles like cracks. She looked like a very well-dressed winter apple.”

“You're beautiful this morning," Archer said, stopping before her, kissing her nose. "You're impossibly sweet in my shirt."That might be but she felt like death. She would gladly make the trade; how blissful it would be to feel impossibly sweet and look like death.”