My son corrupts a well-derived nature With his inducement.
I have those hopes of her good that her education promises; her dispositions she inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity,—they are virtues and traitors too: in her they are the better for their simpleness; she derives her honesty, and achieves her goodness.
I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine, Derived from the ancient Capulet; My suit, as I do understand, you know, And therefore know how far I may be pitied.
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.
Yes, so please your majesty; I did go between them, as I said; but more than that, he loved her,—for indeed he was mad for her, and talked of Satan, and of limbo, and of furies, and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time that I knew of their going to bed; and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would derive me ill-will to speak of; therefore I will not speak what I know.
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She likes to win, but she doesn’t derive pleasure from watching others lose.