Too blessed to be true. To love, to wed—
What then? Perchance repent; ay, there’s the rub.
For in the meekest maid what changes come
When we have wriggled on the golden coil,
Must give us pause. There’s reason good
That makes so many choose a single life—
For who could bear to give up his quiet pipe,
The close society of bosom friends,
The interchange of bright congenial thoughts,
Which sparkle like the glasses on the board,