Your face, my thane, is a book where menMay read strange matters.

In nature's infinite book of secrecyA little I can read.

Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,It seems to me most strange that men should fear;Seeing that death, a necessary end,Will come when it will come.

It matters more what's in a woman's face than what's on it.

Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?

I haven't read the Book of Job yet, but I'm about to.