And makes me poor indeed.
Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.
I feel within me a peace above all earthly dignities, a still and quiet conscience.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph.
He lives in fame that died in virtue's cause.
And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire, The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.