Will: Thomas, if I could write the beauty of her eyes, I was born to look into them and know myself.
Thomas Kent: and...and her lips?
Will: Her lips? The early morning rose would wither on the branch if it could feel envy.
Thomas Kent: And her voice...like lark's song?
Will: Deeper, softer, none of your twittering larks. I would banish the nightingales from the garden before they interrupt her songs...And her bosom. Did I mention her bosom?
Thomas Kent: (offended) What of her bosom?
Will: oh Thomas, a pair of pippins as round and rare as golden apples
In man’s eyes, what a beauty a woman could possess.
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