her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed And put it to the foil: but you, O you, So perfect and so peerless, are created Of every creature's best! I do not know One of my sex; no woman's face remember, Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen More that I may call men than you, good friend, And my dear father: how features are abroad, I am skilless of; but, by my modesty, The jewel in my dower, I would not wish Any companion in the world but you, Nor can imagination form a shape, Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle Something too wildly and my father's precepts I therein do forget. I am in my condition A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king; I would, not so!--and would no more endure This wooden slavery than to suffer The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak: The very instant that I saw you, did My heart fly to your service; there resides, To make me slave to it; and for your sake Am I this patient log--man. Do you love me? O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound And crown what I profess with kind event If I speak true! if hollowly, invert What best is boded me to mischief! I Beyond all limit of what else i' the world Do love, prize, honour you. I am a fool To weep at what I am glad of. Fair encounter Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace On that which breeds between 'em! Wherefore weep you? At mine unworthiness that dare not offer What I desire to give, and much less take What I shall die to want. But this is trifling; And all the more it seeks to hide itself, The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning! And prompt me, plain and holy innocence! I am your wife, it you will marry me; If not, I'll die your maid: to be your fellow You may deny me; but I'll be your servant, Whether you will or no. My mistress, dearest; And I thus humble ever. My husband, then? Ay, with a heart as willing As bondage e'er of freedom: here's my hand. And mine, with my heart in't; and now farewell Till half an hour hence. A thousand thousand! So glad of this as they I cannot be, Who are surprised withal; but my rejoicing At nothing can be more. I'll to my book, For yet ere supper-time must I perform Much business