Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish, her election Hath sealed thee for herself; for thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing,
A man that fortune’s buffets and rewards
Hast ta’en with equal thanks; and bless’d are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled That they are not a pipe for fortune’s finger
To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him
In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.