Or Are You Like The Painting Of

My Hands Are Of Your Color, But I Shame To Wear A Heart So White.

I That Please Some, Try All, Both Joy And Terror Of Good And Bad, That Makes And Unfolds Error.

Who Finds The Heifer Dead And Bleeding Fresh And Sees Fast-by A Butcher With An Axe, But Will Suspect 'twas He That Made The Slaughter?

Either To Die The Death Or To Abjure For Ever The Society Of Men. Therefore, Fair Hermia, Question Your Desires; Know Of Your Youth, Examine Well Your Blood, Whether, If You Yield Not To Your Father's Choice, You Can Endure The Livery Of A Nun, For Aye To Be In Shady Cloister Mew'd, To Live A Barren Sister All Your Life, Chanting Faint Hymns To The Cold Fruitless Moon. Thrice-blessed They That Master So Their Blood, To Undergo Such Maiden Pilgrimage; But Earthlier Happy Is The Rose Distill'd, Than That Which Withering On The Virgin Thorn Grows, Lives And Dies In Single Blessedness.

If You Spend Word For Word With Me, I Shall Make Your Wit Bankrupt.