Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
Trust not my reading, nor my observations, Which with experimental seal do warrant The tenor of my book.
Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak; Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit, Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak, The folded meaning of your words' deceit.
Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
Better a little chiding than a great deal of heartbreak.