TALES.

B

TALE IX.

ARABELLA.

Thrice blessed they that master so their blood-
But earthly happier is the rose distill'd,
Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn,
Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.

Midsummer Night's Dream

I sometimes do excuse the thing I hate,
For his advantage whom I dearly love.

Measure for Measure.

Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!

Much Ado about Nothing.