not any; Except thou wilt except against my love. Have I not reason to prefer mine own? And I will help thee to prefer her too: She shall be dignified with this high honour-- To bear my lady's train, lest the base earth Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss And, of so great a favour growing proud, Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower And make rough winter everlastingly. Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this? Pardon me, Proteus: all I can is nothing To her whose worth makes other worthies nothing; She is alone. Then let her alone. Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar and the rocks pure gold. Forgive me that I do not dream on thee, Because thou see'st me dote upon my love. My foolish rival, that her father likes Only for his possessions are so huge, Is gone with her along, and I must after, For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy. But she loves you? Ay, and we are betroth'd: nay, more, our, marriage-hour, With all the cunning manner of our flight, Determined of; how I must climb her window, The ladder made of cords, and all the means Plotted and 'greed on for my happiness. Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber, In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel. Go on before; I shall inquire you forth: I must unto the road, to disembark Some necessaries that I needs must use, And then I'll presently attend you. Will you make haste? I will. Even as one heat another heat expels, Or as one nail by strength drives out another, So the remembrance of my former love Is by a newer object quite forgotten. Is it mine, or Valentine's praise, Her true perfection, or my false transgression, That makes me reasonless to reason thus? She is fair; and so is Julia that I love-- That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd; Which, like a waxen image, 'gainst a fire, Bears no impression of the thing it was. Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold, And that I love him not as I was wont. O, but I love his lady too too much, And that's the reason I love him so little. How shall I dote on her with more advice, That thus without advice begin to love her! 'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld, And that hath dazzled