Hazlitt.    

	In nature there’s no blemish but the mind;
	None can be call’d deform’d but the unkind:
	Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous evil
	Are empty trunks, o’er-flourish’d by the devil.

Shakespeare.    

	Deformity of the heart I call
	The worst deformity of all;
	For what is form, or what is face,
	But the soul’s index, or its case?

Colton.    

Fuller.    

	Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time
	Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
	And that so lamely and unfashionably,
	That dogs bark at me, as I halt by them.
	But I,—that am not shap’d for sportive tricks,
	Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
	I that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty,
	To strut before a wanton ambling nymph.

Shakespeare.    

Pascal.    

	Deformity is daring;
	It is its essence to o’ertake mankind
	By heart and soul, and make itself the equal—
	Ay, the superior of the rest. There is
	A spur in its halt movements, to become
	All that the others cannot, in such things
	As still are free for both, to compensate
	For stepdame Nature’s avarice at first.

Byron.    

	Nature herself started back when thou wert born,
	And cried, “the work’s not mine.”
	The midwife stood aghast; and when she saw
	Thy mountain back and thy distorted legs,
	Thy face itself,
	Half-minted with the royal stamp of man,
	And half o’ercome with beast, she doubted long
	Whose right in thee were more;
	And know not if to burn thee in the flames
	Were not the holier work.

Lee.    

	Why, love forswore me in my mother’s womb:
	And, for I should not deal in her soft laws,
	She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe
	To shrink mine arm up like a wither’d shrub,
	To make an envious mountain on my back,
	Where sits deformity to make my body;
	To shape my legs of an unequal size;
	To disproportion me in every part,
	Like to a chaos, or an unlick’d bear-whelp,
	That carries no impression like the dam.
	And am I then a man to be belov’d?

Shakespeare.    

	Am I to blame, if nature threw my body
	In so perverse a mould! yet when she cast
	Her envious hand upon my supple joints,
	Unable to resist, and rumpled them
	On heaps in their dark lodging; to revenge
	Her bungled work, she stamped my mind more fair,
	And as from chaos, huddled and deform’d,
	The gods struck fire, and lighted up the lamps
	That beautify the sky; so she inform’d
	This ill-shap’d body with a daring soul,
	And, making less than man, she made me more.

Lee.    

De Quincey.