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KING. ’Tis only title thou disdain’st in her, the which I can build up. Strange is it that our bloods, Of colour, weight, and heat, pour’d all together, Would quite confound distinction, yet stands off In differences so mighty. If she be All that is virtuous, save what thou dislik’st, A poor physician’s daughter,—thou dislik’st— Of virtue for the name. But do not so. From lowest place when virtuous things proceed, The place is dignified by the doer’s deed. Where great additions swell’s, and virtue none, It is a dropsied honour. Good alone Is good without a name; vileness is so: The property by what it is should go, Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair; In these to nature she’s immediate heir; And these breed honour: that is honour’s scorn Which challenges itself as honour’s born, And is not like the sire. Honours thrive When rather from our acts we them derive Than our fore-goers. The mere word’s a slave, Debauch’d on every tomb, on every grave A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb Where dust and damn’d oblivion is the tomb Of honour’d bones indeed. What should be said? If thou canst like this creature as a maid, I can create the rest. Virtue and she Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me.

BERTRAM. I cannot love her, nor will strive to do ’t.

KING. Thou wrong’st thyself, if thou shouldst strive to choose.

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