Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania

No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds?

And how his audit stands who knows, save Heaven?

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?

O King, believe not this hard-hearted man!

Simply the thing that I am shall make me live.

Trust not my reading, nor my observations, Which with experimental seal do warrant The tenor of my book.