Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear, That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops Jul. O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities: For nought so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give, Nor aught so good but straind from that fair use Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse; Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied; And vice sometimes by action dignified.