I do beseech you⁠— Though I perchance am vicious in my guess, As, I confess, it is my nature’s plague To spy into abuses, and oft my jealousy Shapes faults that are not⁠—that your wisdom yet, From one that so imperfectly conceits, Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble Out of his scattering and unsure observance. It were not for your quiet nor your good, Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom, To let you know my thoughts.

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing; ’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands: But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed.

You cannot, if my heart were in your hand; Nor shall not, whilst ’tis in my custody.