This the curse of service: Preferment goes by letter and affection, and not by old gradation, where each second stood heir to the first. They are as sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing. They are but beggars that can count their worth, but my true love is grown to such excess, I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth. They do not love that do not show their love. The course of true love never did run smooth. Love is a familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love. They say miracles are past. Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eye, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream. The purest treasure mortal times afford, is spotless reputation; that away, men are but gilded loam or painted clay. 'Tis not the many oaths that make the truth; But the plain single vow, that is vow'd true. They say the tongues of dying men enforce attention, like deep harmony: Where words are scarce, they're seldom spent in vain. | 
