There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.

There is no art To find the mind's construction in the face

Art is the microscope of the mind, which sharpens the wit as the other does the sight, and converts every object into a little universe in itself.

How soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face

Thou art death's fool;For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shunAnd yet runn'st toward him still.

My liege, and madam, to expostulate
What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time,
Were nothing but to waste night, day and time.
Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,
I will be brief.