Tis Beauty That Doth Oft Make Women

Alas, I Am A Woman Friendless, Hopeless!

Men Must Learn Now With Pity To Dispense; For Policy Sits Above Conscience.

T'is True: There's Magic In The Web Of It.

Our Wills And Fates Do So Contrary Run, That Our Devices Still Are Overthrown; Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None Of Our Own.

We Make Ourselves Fools To Disport Ourselves And Spend Our Flatteries To Drink Those Men Upon Whose Age We Void It Up Again With Poisonous Spite And Envy.