My deere, deere Lord, The purest treasure mortall times afford Is spotlesse reputation: that away, Men are but gilded loame, or painted clay.
"Richard-II"
Shakespeare, William
Letters came last night To a deere Friend of the Duke of Yorkes, That tell blacke tydings Qu.
"Richard-II"
Shakespeare, William
Mice, and rats, and such small deere Have been Tom's food for seven long yeare."
"Chapters in the History of the Insane in the British Isles"
Daniel Hack Tuke