I do beseech you- Though I perchance am vicious in my guess , that your wisdom yet From one that so imperfectly conjects Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble Out of his scattering and unsure observance.

Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat; Of habits devil, is angel yet in this.

Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.

I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.

So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow's heavenly; it strikes where it doth love.