Against Ill Chances Men Are Ever Merry,

So Curses All Eve's Daughters Of What Complexion Soever.

Scorn, At First, Makes After-love The More.

We Make Trifles Of Terrors, Ensconcing Ourselves Into Seeming Knowledge, When We Should Submit Ourselves To An Unknown Fear.

I Will Speak Daggers To Her, But Use None.

O Villains, Vipers, Dogs, Easily Won To Fawn On Any Man!