Twelfth Night - William Shakespeare. (Probably my favourite play)
Enter Viola dressed as a boy
Duke: Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it remember me;
For such as I am all true lovers are,
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is beloved. How dost thou like this tune?
Viola: It gives a very echo to the seat
Where love is throned.
Duke: Thou dost speak masterly.
My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves.
Hath it not, boy?
Viola: A little, by your favour.
Duke: What kind of woman is’t?
Viola: Of your complexion.
Duke: She is not worth thee then. What years, i’faith?
Viola: About your years, my lord.
Duke: Too old, by heaven. Let still the woman take
An elder than herself: so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband’s heart;
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,
Than women’s are.
Viola: I think it well, my lord.
Duke: Then let they love be younger than thyself,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;
For women are as roses, whose fair flow’r,
Being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.
Viola: And so they are; alas, that they are so.
To die, even when they to perfection grow.