William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

O THOU goddess,

Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon’st

In these two princely boys! They are as gentle

As zephyrs, blowing below the violet,

Not wagging his sweet head: and yet as rough,

Their royal blood enchafed, as the rud’st wind,

That by the top doth take the mountain pine,

And make him stoop to the vale. ’Tis wonderful

That an invisible instinct should frame them

To royalty unlearned; honor untaught;

Civility not seen from other; valor,

That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop

As if it had been sowed!