tortive

Princes , what grief hath set the jaundice o’er your
cheeks ?
The ample proposition that hope makes
In all designs begun on Earth earth below
Fails in the promised largeness . Checks and disasters
Grow in the veins of actions highest reared ,
As knots , by the conflux of meeting sap ,
Infects the sound pine and diverts his grain
Tortive and errant from his course of growth .
Nor , princes , is it matter new to us
That we come short of our suppose so far
That after seven years’ siege yet Troy walls stand ,
Sith every action that hath gone before ,
Whereof we have record , trial did draw
Bias and thwart , not answering the aim
And that unbodied figure of the thought
That gave ’t surmisèd shape . Why then , you princes ,
Do you with cheeks abashed behold our works
And call them shames , which are indeed naught else
But the protractive trials of great Jove
To find persistive constancy in men ?
The fineness of which metal is not found
In Fortune’s love ; for then the bold and coward ,
The wise and fool , the artist and unread ,
The hard and soft seem all affined and kin .
But in the wind and tempest of her frown ,
Distinction , with a broad and powerful fan ,
Puffing at all , winnows the light away ,
And what hath mass or matter by itself
Lies rich in virtue and unmingled .