Fabrizio del Wrongo writes:
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 [disguised as a boy]
It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is throned.
Thou dost speak masterly:
My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stay’d upon some favour that it loves:
Hath it not, boy?
A little, by your favour.
What kind of woman is’t?
Of your complexion.
She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith?
About your years, my lord.
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.
I think it well, my lord.
Then let thy love be younger than thyself,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;
For women are as roses, whose fair flower
Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour.
And so they are: alas, that they are so;
To die, even when they to perfection grow!
— William Shakespeare