II.1

At a marriage-feast, saw I this Longaville:
A man of sovereign parts he is esteem'd; 
Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms:  
Nothing becomes him ill that he would well. 
The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss,
If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil,
Is a sharp wit matched with too blunt a will;  
Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills 
It should none spare that come within his power.