And, gazing, slowly from the glass retired.
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.
SHAKESPEARE, Midsummer Night’s Dream.
I something do excuse the thing I hate,
For his advantage whom I dearly love.