Which if not wholly love, at least was liking,
In the sweet twilight of whose unris’n sun
My soul as yet walk’d hesitatingly.
For, my Porcia, there is not a woman,
Say what she will, and virtuous as you please,
Who, being loved, resents it: and could he,
Who most his mistress’s disfavour mourns,
Look deeply down enough into her heart,
He’d see, however high she carries it,
Some grateful recognition lurking there